UNIV.  OF 


CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


6|o  thou  thy  way  dnd  I  yo  mine, 

/lpekrt,yet  not  £fdr; 
Only  dthin  veil  h^nys  between 

The  ptfhw&ys  where  we  are. 


id  6od  keep  wdtch  'tween  thee  And  me, 

This  k  my  prdyer; 
He  looks  thy  way,  He  looketh  mine, 
keeps  u&  near. 


sometimes  to  see  thy  f&ce, 
Bat  si  nee  this  m&y  not  be, 
I'll  leave  thee  to  the  cd.re  of  him 
Who  c&resforthee  6,nd  me. 


LORD  BYRON. 


X  \VLCUL     t&*t 

m 

/  — /  /     y  •  /f/?          ^P 
L. 

;     /" 


M 


The  Isles  of  Greece. 


SELECTED  POEMS 


OF 


LORD      BYRON 


EDITED    BY 

MATTHEW      ARNOLD 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

BY 

NATHAN   HASKELL   DOLE 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS     Y.    CROWELL    &    CO 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1884  AND  1893, 
Bv  T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  Co. 


STACK  ANNEX 


fil 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH    OF 
LORD    BYRON. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  was  born  in  Holies  Street, 
London,  Jan.  22,  1788. 

On  his  mother's  side  he  was  descended  from  James  I. 
through  his  daughter  Annabella,  married  to  the  second 
Earl  of  Huntley. 

On  his  father's  side  he  claimed  to  be  of  Norman  blood. 
He  wrote  Count  d'Orsay :  "  My  name  and  family  are  both 
Norman."  William  the  Conqueror  had  in  his  train  two 
de  Buruns :  Sir  Erneis  and  Sir  Rodulphus  or  Ralph,  who 
had  grants  of  land  in  Yorkshire,  Lancashire,  and  Notting- 
hamshire. 

Making  allowance  for  gaps  in  the  record,  which  is  faulty 
for  several  hundred  years  and  during  several  consecutive 
generations,  it  is  not  hard  to  believe  Byron's  assertion 
that  his  family  were  knightly  from  the  time  of  the  Con- 
queror, and  noble  from  that  of  Charles  the  First.  The 
name  was  common  though  not  distinguished  in  English 
history.  At  Calais,  at  Cressy,  and  at  Bosworth,  Byrons 
fought,  bled,  and  died.  Definite  ancestry  begins  with 
Sir  John,'  familiarly  known  as  "  Sir  John  the  Little  with 
the  Great  Beard,"  who  at  the  dissolution  of  the  monas- 
teries received  from  Henry  VIII.  the  church  and  priory 
of  Newstead. 

iii 


2073784 


VI  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

minster  school,  then  to  a  French  military  academy;  en- 
tering the  army,  he  served  in  America.  Returning  to 
London,  he  seduced  the  Marchioness  of  Carmarthen, 
Lady  Conyers,  whom  after  her  divorce  he  married,  and 
treated  brutally,  though,  by  her  death,  he  lost  her  income 
of  ,£4,000  a  year.  She  died  in  1784,  leaving  a  daughter, 
Augusta,  who  was  an  important  factor  in  the  poet's  life. 

Two  years  later  he  married  Catherine  Gordon  of  Gight, 
near  Aberdeen,  who  had  about  ^23,000  in  her  own  right. 
She  is  described  as  "  a  dumpy  young  woman,  with  a  large 
waist,  florid  complexion,  and  homely  features,"  lacking 
even  a  common  education,  and  subject  to  "  frequent  fits  of 
uncontrollable  fury."  Her  father  had  committed  suicide. 

Captain  Byron  quickly  ran  through  all  but  ^3,000  of 
her  small  property,  and  three  years  after  his  son's  birth 
he  begged  a  guinea  from  her  and  fled  to  France,  where 
he  died,  possibly  by  suicide,  at  Valenciennes,  August, 
r79i.  Though  Mrs.  Byron  had  found  it  impossible  to 
live  with  him,  it  is  said  that  when  she  heard  of  his  death 
she  disturbed  the  neighborhood  with  her  shrieks.  Byron 
claimed  to  have  remembered  his  father,  who,  when 
living  apart  from  his  wife,  used  to  waylay  the  child  and 
play  with  him,  and  once  took  him  home  to  his  lodgings 
for  the  night.  He  idealized  the  memory  of  "  his  sire  "  in 
a  few  pathetic  lines  in  Lara. 

Byron's  childhood  was  spent  in  Aberdeen.  Perhaps 
fortunate  in  being  out  of  the  influence  of  "  Mad  Jack," 
he  was  doubly  unfortunate  in  his  mother's  management. 
Caresses  of  passionate  violence  often  alternated  with 
fierce  blows. 

He  was  lame  from  birth  —  not  club-footed,  but  unable 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  Vll 

to  put  his  right  foot  flat  upon  the  ground,  owing  to  a 
painful  malformation  of  the  tendon  of  the  heel.  He  had 
"to  hop  about  like  a  bird."  His  mother  used  to  chase 
him,  trying  to  hit  him  with  the  poker.  Once  when  she 
poured  out  her  abuse  upon  him,  she  ended  by  calling 
him  "  a  lame  brat."  His  lips  quivered,  his  face  turned 
pale,  his  eyes  flashed:  then  he  replied:  "  I  was  born  so," 
mother." 

Curiously  enough  this  unnatural  mother,  who  boasted 
of  the  superior  birth  of  her  branch  of  the  Gordons, 
vaunted  herself  a  "democrat"  and  sympathized  with 
the  French  people  in  their  struggle  with  royalty.  If 
the  poet  owed  anything  to  her  it  was  his  abhorrence 
of  tyranny,  his  generosity  toward  the  poor  and  the 
oppressed. 

To  his  nurse,  Mary  Gray,  of  whom  he  was  fond,  Byron 
owed  his  familiarity  with  the  Bible  and  his  strong  bent 
toward  Calvinism  which  survived  all  his  doubts. 

His  secular  education  was  not  neglected.  In  his 
recollections  of  Scotland  (written  when  he  was  twenty- 
six)  he  commemorates  three  pedagogues  who,  with  more 
or  less  success,  prepared  him  for  the  Aberdeen  Grammar 
School.  This  he  entered  in  1794,  and  distinguished 
himself  by  being  constantly  at  the  foot  of  the  class.  His 
lameness  prevented  him  from  taking  part  in  boyish 
games.  He,  therefore,  instead  of  studying  his  lessons, 
amused  himself  by  reading,  and  the  list  of  works, 
particularly  travels  and  descriptions  of  the  East,  which 
he  had  devoured  before  he  was  ten  years  old  is  remark- 
able. He  remembered  them,  too,  and  the  influence  of 
some  of  them  is  directly  traceable  in  his  poetical  works. 


Vlll  BIOGRAl'HICAL   SKETCH. 

He  was  not  able  to  take  long  walks,  —  his  references  to 
climbing  the  hills  are  apocryphal,  — but  he  had  a  Shetland 
pony  and  thus  "  roamed  the  dusky  wild." 

While  in  Aberdeen  he  fell  in  love  with  his  cousin, 
Mary  Duff,  a  charming  hazel-eyed,  brown-haired  little 
girl.  This  was  a  serious  matter  to  the  impressionable 
boy.  The  memory  of  it,  eight  years  later,  when  he  was 
sixteen,  was  so  intense  that  the  report  of  her  unromantic 
marriage  to  an  Edinburgh  wine-merchant  almost  threw 
him  into  convulsions. 

He  dated  his  love  for  the  mountains  from  a  visit  to 
Ballater  in  the  Highlands,  where  his  mother  took  him 
when  he  was  a  boy  of  ten  recovering  from  the  scarlet 
fever.  The  lesson  of  her  frenzies  was  not  lost  upon  him. 
In  his  recollections  he  declares  that  he  did  not  specially 
differ  from  other  children,  being  neither  tall  nor  short, 
dull  nor  witty,  but  rather  lively,  except  in  his  sullen 
moods,  and  then  he  was  always  a  devil.  Once  at  table 
he  even  threatened  to  kill  himself  with  a  knife  which  he 
snatched  up  in  his  fury. 

In  May,  1798,  the  family  title  devolved  upon  him 
from  his  great-uncle,  "  the  wicked  lord,"  who,  though 
he  knew  that  "  the  little  boy  at  Aberdeen  "  was  to  be 
his  successor,  had  never  done  anything  to  relieve  his 
necessities.  It  is  said  that  when  the  schoolmaster  in 
calling  the  roll  prefixed  the  Latin  for  lord  before  Byron's 
name,  he  was  so  affected  that  he  was  unable  to  respond, 
but  burst  into  tears. 

Mrs.  Byron's  income  after  her  husband's  death  had 
not  been  sufficient  to  keep  her  out  of  debt.  Even  at  its 
almost  it  was  only  ^190  a  year.  She  sold  her  furniture 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  ix 

for  a  little  less  than  £75<  and  went  with  the  young  lord 
and  his  nurse  to  the  ruined  domain  which,  though 
valued  at  ^90,000,  yielded  less  than  two  per  cent,  and 
was  in  chancery.  Surely  a  title  given  by  the  Stuarts, 
and  thus  stripped  of  its  material  accessories,  was  little  to 
awaken  pride. 

Byron,   in  the  thirteenth  canto  of    Don    Juan,   thus 
described  the  Norman  Abbey:  — 

An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now 
Still  older  mansion,  —  of  a  rich  and  rare 

Mixed  Gothic,  such  as  artists  all  allow 
Few  specimens  yet  left  us  can  compare 

Withal :  it  lies  perhaps  a  little  low, 
Because  the  monks  preferred  a  hill  behind, 
To  shelter  their  devotions  from  the  wind. 


It  stood  embosomed  in  a  happy  valley, 

Crowned  by  high  woodlands,  where  the  Druid  oak 
Stood  like  Caractacus  in  act  to  rally 

His  host,  with  broad  arms  'gainst  the  thunder-stroke : 
And  from  beneath  his  boughs  were  seen  to  sally 

The  dappled  foresters  —  as  day  awoke, 
The  branching  stag  swept  down  with  all  his  herd, 
To  quaff  a  brook  which  murmured  like  a  bird. 


Before  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake, 
Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 

By  a  river,  which  its  softened  way  did  take 
In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH, 

Around  :  the  wild  fowl  nestled  in  the  brake 
And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed  : 
The  woods  sloped  downwards  to  its  brink,  and  stood 
With  their  green  faces  fixed  upon  the  flood. 


Its  outlet  dashed  into  a  deep  cascade, 

Sparkling  with  foam,  until  again  subsiding, 

Its  shriller  echoes  —  like  an  infant  made 
Quiet  —  sank  into  softer  ripples,  gliding 

Into  a  rivulet ;  and  thus  allayed, 

Pursued  its  course,  now  gleaming,  and  now  hiding 

Its  windings  through  the  woods ;  now  clear,  now  blue, 

According  as  the  skies  their  shadows  threw. 

LIX. 

A  glorious  remnant  of  the  Gothic  pile 

(While  yet  the  church  was  Rome's)  stood  half  apart 
In  a  grand  arch,  which  once  screened  many  an  aisle. 

These  last  had  disappeared  —  a  loss  to  art  : 
The  first  yet  frowned  superbly  o'er  the  soil, 

And  kindled  feelings  in  the  roughest  heart, 
Which  mourned  the  power  of  time's  or  tempest's  march 
In  gazing  on  that  venerable  arch. 

LX. 

Within  a  niche,  nigh  to  its  pinnacle, 

Twelve  saints  had  once  stood  sanctified  in  st«ne ; 
But  these  had  fallen,  not  when  the  friars  fell, 

But  in  the  war  which  struck  Charles  from  hi"  throne, 
When  each  house  was  a  fortalice  —  as  tell 

The  annals  of  full  many  a  line  undone,  — 
The  gallant  cavaliers  who  fought  in  vain 
For  those  who  knew  not  to  resign  or  reign. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xi 

LXI. 

But  in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  crowned, 
The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-born  Child, 

With  her  Son  in  her  blessed  arms,  looked  round, 
Spared  by  some  chance  when  all  beside  was  spoiled; 

She  made  the  earth  below  seem  holy  ground. 
This  may  be  superstition,  weak  or  wild, 

But  even  the  faintest  relics  of  a  shrine 

Of  any  worship  wake  some  thoughts  divine 


A  mighty  window,  hollow  in  the  centre, 
Shorn  of  its  glass  of  thousand  colorings, 

Through  which  the  deepened  glories  once  could  enter, 
Streaming  from  off  the  sun  like  seraph's  wings, 

Now  yawns  all  desolate  :  now  loud,  now  fainter, 
The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and  oft  sings 

The  owl  his  anthem,  where  the  silenced  quire 

Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  quenched  like  fire. 

LXIII. 
But  in  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 

The  wind  is  winged  from  one  point  of  heaven, 
There  moans  a  strange  unearthly  sound,  which  then 

Is  musical  —  a  dying  accent  driven 
Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks  again. 

Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 
Back  to  the  night  wind  by  the  waterfall, 
And  harmonized  by  the  old  choral  wall : 


Others,  that  some  original  shape,  or  form 

Shaped  by  decay,  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 

(Though  less  than  that  of  Memnon's  statue,  warm 
In  Egypt's  rays,  to  harp  at  a  fixed  hour) 


Xll  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

To  this  gray  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm  ; 

Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  o'er  tree  or  tower ; 
The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve ;  but  such 
The  fact :  —  I've  heard  it,  —  once  perhaps  too  much. 

LXV. 
Amidst  the  court  a  Gothic  fountain  played, 

Symmetrical,  but  decked  with  carvings  quaint  — 
Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade, 

And  here  perhaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint  : 
The  spring  gushed  through  grim  mouths  of  granite  made, 

And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 
Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  bubbles, 
Like  man's  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles. 

LXVI. 

The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 
With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 

Elsewhere  preserved  :  the  cloisters  still  were  stable, 
The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I  ween  : 

An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able, 
Still  unimpaired,  to  decorate  the  scene ; 

The  rest  had  been  reformed,  replaced,  or  sunk, 

And  spoke  more  of  the  baron  than  the  monk. 

But  the  "  huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  cham 
bers  "  were  scarcely  fit  for  habitation,  and  Mrs.  Byron 
took  lodgings  for  a  year  in  Nottingham.  During  this 
time  an  unskilful  surgeon  attempted  to  remedy  Byron's 
lameness,  but  with  only  ill  results.  It  is  said  that  the 
boy  played  a  trick  upon  him  by  writing  some  gibberish 
words  and  asking  him  what  the  language  was.  "  Ital- 
ian," replied  the  quack. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  Xlil 

Byron  continued  his  studies  with  a  tutor  named  Rogers. 
One  day  Rogers,  noticing  that  the  boy  was  suffering 
from  his  foot,  expressed  his  sympathy. 

"  Never  mind,  Mr.  Rogers;  you  shan't  see  any  signs 
of  it  again,"  was  the  answer. 

The  next  year  Mrs.  Byron,  who  was  granted  a  pen- 
sion of  three  hundred  pounds  from  the  civil  list,  moved 
to  London.  Mary  Gray,  the  nurse,  returned  to  Scot- 
land, and  Byron,  by  the  advice  of  his  guardian  and 
cousin,  Earl  Carlisle,  was  sent  to  Dr.  Glennie's  school 
at  Dulwich.  Mrs.  Byron  constantly  interfered  with  his 
progress.  Dr.  Glennie  appealed  to  Lord  Carlisle,  who 
remonstrated,  but  Mrs.  Byron  was  so  outrageous  that 
the  earl  refused  to  have  any  more  to  do  with  her.  Dr. 
Glennie  declared  that  Mrs.  Byron,  besides  being  a  total 
stranger  to  English  society  and  manners,  had  a  lack  of 
understanding  and  a  mind  wholly  without  cultivation. 

"  Byron,  your  mother  is  a  fool,"  exclaimed  one  of 
his  schoolmates. 

"  I  know  it,"  was  his  reply. 

He  slept  in  the  doctor's  library  and  there  browsed 
on  an  edition  of  the  English  poets  from  Chaucer  to 
Churchill.  He  afterwards  .declared  that  he  "  first  read 
Pope's  Homer  with  a  rapture  which  no  subsequent  work 
could  ever  afford." 

During  this  time,  when  he  was  about  twelve,  he  fell 
in  love  with  another  cousin,  Margaret  Parker,  daughter 
of  Admiral  Parker,  a  girl  with  dark  eyes,  long  eyelashes, 
a  "completely  Greek  cast  of  face  and  figure,"  and  an 
exquisite  complexion.  He  declares  that  "  she  was  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  evanescent  beings.  .  .  .  She  looked 


XIV  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

as  if  she  had  been  made  out  of  a  rainbow  —  all  beauty 
and  peace." 

This  passion  was  as  real  as  his  first.  Moreover,  it 
inspired  him  to  song.  Byron  says,  — 

"  My  passion  had  its  usual  effect  upon  me.  I  could  not 
sleep,  I  could  not  eat,  I  could  not  rest ;  and  although  I  had  rea- 
son to  know  that  she  loved  me,  it  was  the  texture  of  my  life 
to  think  of  the  time  which  must  elapse  before  we  could  meet 
again,  being  usually  about  twelve  hours  of  separation." 

Margaret  soon  died  of  consumption,  and  Byron,  when 
he  learned  of  it,  wrote  an  elegy  in  the  style  of  Pope, 
beginning 

"  Hushed  are  the  winds  and  still  the  evening  gloom," 

which  was  printed  in  Hours  of  Idleness. 

In  the  summer  of  1801  Byron  accompanied  his  mother 
to  Cheltenham:  he  afterwards  recalled  the  indescrib- 
able sensations  with  which  he  watched  the  Malvern 
Hills  at  sunset.  Here  his  mother  was  alarmed  by  the 
words  of  a  fortune-teller  who  predicted  that  the  lame 
boy  would  be  'in  danger  from  poison  before  he  was  of 
age,  and  would  be  twice  married  —  the  second  time  to  a 
foreign  lady. 

The  following  autumn  Byron  was  sent  to  Harrow, 
where  he  remained  four  years.  He  was  at  first  under 
the  charge  of  Dr.  Joseph  Drury,  who  assured  Lord  Car- 
lisle that  he  had  talents  which  would  add  lustre  to  his 
rank. 

"  Indeed,"  was  the  sceptical  reply. 

Byron  stated  in  his  journal  that  he  hated  Harrow  till 
the  last  year  and  a  half  of  his  stay  there.  He  also  de- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XV 

clared  that  at  first  he  was  a  most  unpopular  boy.  It  is 
certain  that  he  was  unnaturally  fat,  inordinately  con- 
ceited, yet  shy,  uncouth,  quick-tempered,  and  still 
afflicted  with  a  Scotch  brogue.  Miss  Pigott  called  him 
a  perfect  "  gaby;"  Dr.  Drury  regarded  him  as  a  "  wild 
mountain  colt."  The  older  boys  fagged  and  tormented 
him  till  he  at  last  reached  the  upper  forms,  when  he 
stood  forth  characteristically  as  the  champion  of  the 
oppressed. 

When  Dr.  Drury  retired  in  1805,  and  was  succeeded 
by  Dr.  Butler,  the  boys  resented  the  change,  and  Byron 
was  a  ringleader  in  the  pranks  played.  He  helped  tear 
down  the  window-gratings,  but  withstood  a  wild  scheme 
to  set  one  of  the  class-rooms  on  fire,  arguing  that  it 
would  burn  up  the  desks  on  which  their  grandfathers  had 
carved  their  initials.  Many  of  his  classmates  —  Peel, 
Palmerston,  Bankes,  Hobhouse,  Tavistock  —  became 
famous.  Byron  made  little  progress  in  his  studies  at 
Harrow,  but  he  was  an  able  declaimer  and  gave  promise 
of  becoming  an  eloquent  orator. 

While  still  at  Harrow  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
his  half-sister,  Augusta,  plain  and  dowdyish,  but  womanly 
and  pious,  and  destined  to  be  "  from  first  to  last  the 
chief  influence  for  good  in  her  brother's  life." 

In  1803  he  spent  his  vacation  at  Nottingham.  Lord 
Grey  de  Ruthen,  the  tenant  of  Newstead,  gave  him  a 
standing  invitation  to  the  Abbey,  and  put  a  room  at  his 
disposal.  He  also  frequently  visited  Annesley  Hall, 
where  lived  his  cousins,  the  Chaworths. 

Mary  Anne  Chaworth — "  the  bright  morning  star  of 
Annesley  "  — then  about  eighteen,  was  a  beautiful  girl. 


xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

Byron  fell  in  love  with  her.  She  unquestionably  led 
him  on,  but  she  was  already  engaged  to  Mr.  John  Mas- 
ters. Her  remark,  "  Do  you  think  I  could  care  any- 
thing for  that  lame  boy  ?"  was  reported  to  him.  Such 
wounds  made  in  a  boy's  heart  leave  never-fading  scars. 
The  influence  of  this  third  grand  passion  remained  all 
his  life  and  colored  his  poetry:  "The  Dream,"  "  Stan- 
zas to  a  Lady,"  the  "  Epistle  to  a  Friend,"  and  other 
verses  are  full  of  that  episode.  Byron  declared  that  he 
took  all  his  fables  about  the  celestial  nature  of  women 
from  the  perfection  his  imagination  created  in  her. 

Byron  still  spent  his  vacations  with  his  mother,  but 
quarrels  between  them  were  frequent  and  violent.  On 
one  occasion  each  went  to  the  apothecary  and  begged 
him  not  to  sell  the  other  poison. 

He  went  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  October, 
1805,  where,  as  at  Harrow,  he  paid  more  attention  to 
his  friendships  than  to  his  studies.  Here  also  most  of 
his  friends  were  of  a  social  rank  lower  than  his  own:  he 
was  most  intimate  with  Eddlestone,  a  member  of  the 
college  choir,  whom,  according  to  his  own  statement,  he 
"  loved  more  than  any  human  being." 

He  published  his  juvenile  poems  for  private  circula- 
tion in  November,  1806;  his  Hours  of  Idleness  appeared 
in  March,  1807.  At  that  time  he  weighed  over  two 
hundred  pounds,  but  he  now  began  a  system  of  banting 
which,  while  it  succeeded  in  reducing  his  weight,  also 
ruined  his  digestion.  By  vapor  baths,  vinegar,  and  a 
restricted  diet  he  thenceforward  kept  himself  down  to 
about  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  During  his  first 
terms  at  Cambridge  he  held  aloof  from  general  society, 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XVII 

but  after  the  publication  of  Hours  of  Idleness  he  began 
to  indulge  in  the  usual  dissipations  of  a  wealthy  nobleman. 
He  lived  much  in  London,  but  he  had  expensive  furnished 
apartments  in  Cambridge,  gave  dinners,  kept  dogs,  a 
couple  of  saddle  horses,  and  a  coronetted  carriage,  a 
groom  and  a  valet,  and  gambled  recklessly,  as  he  con- 
fessed, with  "  no  coolness  of  judgment,  or  calculation." 

By  the  time  he  was  of  age  he  was  over  ten  thousand 
pounds  in  debt. 

In  anticipation  of  occupying  Newstead  he  had  a  few 
rooms  put  in  order  for  himself  and  Mrs.  Byron.  He 
spent  the  last  month  of  his  minority  there,  occasionally 
visited  by  the  Brompton  girl,  whom,  dressed  in  boy's 
attire,  he  introduced  to  his  friends  as  his  brother  Gordon. 
He  also  entertained  some  of  his  Cambridge  friends.  An 
historical  painter  might  find  a  congenial  subject  in  depict- 
ing the  dinner  that  Byron  arranged  when  he  dressed  them 
all  in  monks'  robes,  and  toasted  them  in  Burgundy  from 
a  cup  made  out  of  a  polished  scull  that  had  been  dug  up 
in  the  garden.  The  exaggerated  rumor  of  such  wild 
revels  perhaps  kept  the  gentry  in  the  neighborhood  from 
calling.  The  bear  and  wolf  which  he  kept  chained  at  the 
front  entrance  would  not  attract  timid  neighbors. 

In  spite  of  his  pecuniary  troubles,  he,  in  the  most  deli- 
cate manner,  gave  ^500  to  the  widow  of  the  young  Lord 
Falkland,  who  was  killed  in  a  duel  with  Mr.  Powell, 
leaving  his  family  destitute. 

Meantime,  Hours  of  Idleness,  left  to  itself,  would 
have  sunk  out  of  sight  even  though  it  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  "her  Grace  of  Gordon"  and  "the  rest  of  the 
fashionable  world,"  had  it  not  been  for  the  folly  of 


XVlll  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Brougham  or  Jeffrey,  or  some  disgruntled  Cambridge  don 
who  contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  Review  a  bitter  criti- 
cism of  the  insignificant  volume  —  what  Byron  called  "  a 
masterpiece  of  low  wit,  a  tissue  of  scurrilous  abuse." 
"Never  did  a  great  poet,"  says  the  Honorable  Roden 
Noel,  "produce  an  early  volume  that  gave  so  little 
promise  and  contained  so  much  doggerel,  or  weak,  con- 
ventional, and  bumptiously  affected  verse."  But  the 
review  article  lashed  him  to  fury.  He  drank  three  bot- 
tles of  claret  at  a  sitting,  and  when  he  next  tried  his 
wings  they  had  grown  from  those  of  a  dove  to  those  of 
an  eagle  or  a  hawk. 

In  1809  he  came  of  age,  and  celebrated  it  by  dining  on 
eggs,  bacon,  and  a  bottle  of  ale.  An  ox  was  roasted  for 
the  tenantry,  and  a  ball  was  given,  but  the  neighbors 
were  conspicuous  by  their  absence. 

In  March  he  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords,  but 
the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  to  whom  he  had  dedicated  Hotirs 
of  Idleness,  instead  of  offering  to  introduce  him,  wrote 
a  cool  note  telling  him  what  formalities  were  requisite 
and  necessary.  Nor  did  the  earl  put  himself  out  to  help 
the  poet  find  certain  missing  proof  that  his  grandfather, 
Admiral  Byron,  had  been  legally  married. 

Thus  Byron  took  his  oaths  as  a  peer  of  the  realm,  un- 
attended by  any  sponsor,  and,  in  the  lonely  bitterness  of 
his  heart  he  haughtily  repulsed  the  congratulations  of  the 
chancellor,  Lord  Eldon. 

A  few  days  later  appeared  his  satire  English  Bard:, 
and  Scotch  Reviewers,  in  which  he  not  only  paid  ofl 
old  scores,  but  went  out  of  his  way  gratuitously  to  attack 
every  living  writer  whether  of  note  or  not.  He  after- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XIX 

wards  called  it  "  a  miserable  record  of  misplaced  anger 
and  indiscriminate  acrimony,"  and  would  have  been 
glad  to  "  suppress  even  the  memory  "  of  it. 

The  first  edition,  which  appeared  anonymously,  was  ex- 
hausted in  a  mon.th.  The  second,  revised  and  enlarged, 
bore  his  name,  and  he  was  apparently  disappointed  that 
it  did  not  bring  more  challenges.  Tom  Moore,  indeed, 
sent  him  a  "  cartel,"  but  instead  of  a  hostile  meeting  a 
lifelong  friendship  ensued. 

His  financial  affairs  were  going  from  bad  to  worse. 
The  Rochdale  coal-mine  property  was  burdened  with  a 
lawsuit  that  was  not  settled  for  years  and  was  a  constant 
expense :  his  outlays  on  Newstead  were  made  with  bor- 
rowed money  ;  his  expenses  were  more  than  double  his 
income,  which  indeed  sufficed  not  even  to  pay  the  inter- 
est on  his  debts. 

He  was  urged  to  sell  Newstead,  but  his  pride  forbade. 
Having  taken  his  honorary  degree  from  Cambridge,  he 
made  his  plans  to  go  abroad,  and  to  obtain  the  necessary 
funds  he  applied  to  money-lenders  who  charged  him 
usurious  interest  on  the  risk.  With  three  men-servants 
and  a  trunkful  of  costly  clothes,  including  the  "  scarlet 
coat,  richly  embroidered  with  gold,"  which  he  wore  at 
receptions,  he  sailed  with  his  friend  Hobhouse  on  the 
2d  of  July,  1809. 

At  Lisbon,  Byron,  who  even  when  at  Harrow  was  a 
famous  swimmer,  and  when  at  Cambridge  had  once  won 
a  wager  by  swimming  three  miles  in  the  Thames,  swam 
across  to  the  old  castle  of  Belem.  From  Lisbon  the  two 
friends  rode  on  horseback  through  Spain  to  Cadiz,  seeing 
all  the  sights  and  flirting  with  the  gazelle-eyed  Spanish 


XX  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

ladies.  From  Spain  Byron  sailed  to  the  east,  taking  in 
Sardinia,  Sicily,  Malta,  Albania,  Greece,  Asia  Minor, 
and  Constantinople  —  seeing  "part  of  Africa  and  Asia, 
and  a  tolerable  portion  of  Europe,"  and  hobnobbing  with 
"generals  and  admirals,  princes  and  pashas,  governors 
and  ungovernables." 

On  the  morning  of  May  3,  he  swam  from  Sestos  to 
Abydos  in  an  hour  and  ten  minutes.  He  had  tried  it  the 
week  before  and  failed.  "The  immediate  distance,"  he 
wrote,  "is  not  above  a  mile,  but  the  current  renders  it 
hazardous,  so  much  so  that  I  doubt  whether  Leander's 
conjugal  affection  must  not  have  been  a  little  chilled  in 
his  passage  to  Paradise." 

While  in  southern  Greece  he  shot  an  eagle,  and  was  so 
touched  by  its  death  that  he  vowed  never  to  attempt  the 
life  of  another  •  bird.  Hobhouse's  notes,  Trelawny's 
Recollections,  and  Byron's  letters  and  poems  give  full 
accounts  of  his  travels  and  adventures  during  his  two 
years'  absence.  He  had  planned  to  visit  Egypt,  Persia, 
and  India,  but  his  funds  ran  out  and  he  was  obliged  to 
return. 

"  Embarrassed  in  my  private  affairs,"  he  wrote,  "  in- 
different to  public,  solitary  without  the  wish  to  be  social, 
with  a  body  enfeebled  by  a  succession  of  fevers,  but  a 
spirit,  I  trust,  yet  unbroken,  I  am  returning  home  without 
a  hope,  and  almost  without  a  desire." 

His  return  to  Newstead  in  1811  was  saddened  by  the 
sudden  death  of  his  mother.  Several  of  his  most  inti- 
mate friends  also  died  about  the  same  time.  "  Some 
curse  hangs  over  me  and  mine,"  he  wrote:  "my  mother 
lies  a  corpse  in  this  house;  one  of  my  best  friends  is 
drowned  in  a  ditch. ;' 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  XXI 

Under  the  influence  of  these  melancholy  events  he 
made  his  will,  directing  that  he  should  be  buried  with- 
out religious  ceremony,  with  his  dog  Boatswain.  He 
left  ^7,000  to  a  Greek  boy  to  whom  he  had  taken  a 
fancy  at  Athens. 

In  February  of  the  next  year  he  made  his  first  speech 
in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  was  warmly  congratulated. 
Two  days  later,  John  Murray  published  the  first  two 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.  Byron  had 
presented  the  manuscript  to  his  friend  and  relative, 
Dallas,  who  made  one  or  two  unsuccessful  attempts  to 
dispose  of  it.  Murray  saw  its  merit,  and  brought  out  an 
edition  of  five  thousand  copies. 

"  I  awoke  one  morning,"  wrote  Byron,  "and  found 
myself  famous." 

The  edition  in  demi-quarto  was  exhausted  in  three 
days.  Three  thousand  copies  of  the  second  and  third 
editions  were  quickly  sold.  Mr.  Murray  paid  £600  for 
the  copyright.  It  brought  him  a  fortune.  But  Byron 
at  that  time  refused  to  touch  the  money  he  had  earned. 
"  I  will  never  receive  money  for  my  writings,"  he  said 
to  Dallas.  Afterwards  he  perceived  that  this  was  insen- 
sate folly,  born  of  pride,  and  was  sharp  enough  in  claim- 
ing guineas  instead  of  pounds,  for  the  sake  of  the  extra 
shilling.  Half  in  jest,  half-serious,  he  began  the  twelfth 
canto  of  Don  Juan  with  a  panegyric  on  miserliness: — 

Love  or  lust  makes  man  sick,  and  wine  much  sicker  ; 

Ambition  rends,  and  gaming  gains  a  loss  ; 
But  making  money,  slowly  first,  then  quicker, 

And  adding  still  a  little  through  each  cross 


xxu  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

(Which  will  come  over  things),  beats  love  or  liquor, 
The  gamester's  counter,  or  the  statesman's  dross. 
O  Gold  !  I  still  prefer  thee  unto  paper 
Which  makes  bank  credit  like  a  bark  of  vapor. 

"  Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove,"  —  "for  love 
Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love  :  "  —  so  sings  the  bard  ; 

Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove 
(A  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard). 

Perhaps  there  may  be  something  in  "  the  grove," 
At  least  it  rhymes  to  ''  love  : "  but  I  'm  prepared 

To  doubt  (no  less  than  landlords  of  their  rental) 

If  "  courts  "  and  "  camps  "  be  quite  so  sentimental. 

But  if  Love  don't,  Cash  does,  and  Cash  alone : 
Cash  rules  the  grove,  and  fells  it  too  besides ; 

Without  cash,  camps  were  thin,  and  courts  were  none  ; 
Without  cash,  Malthus  tells  you  —  take  no  brides." 

So  Cash  rules  Love  the  ruler,  on  his  own 

High  ground,  as  virgin  Cynthia  sways  the  tides : 

And  as  for  "  Heaven  being  Love,"  why  not  say  honey 

Is  wax  ?     Heaven  is  not  Love,  't  is  Matrimony. 

Lord  Byron  immediately  became  the  lion  of  London. 
Even  those  whom  he  had  lampooned  in  his  satire  desired 
to  make  his  acquaintance.  He  was  invited  everywhere, 
and  made  a  member  of  a  dozen  clubs.  The  Prince 
Regent  wished  to  talk  with  him.  Women  in  the  highest 
society  fell  in  love  with  him,  for  if  his  regimen  of  soda 
water,  vinegar,  and  crackers  had  spoiled  his  digestion,  it 
had  given  him  a  complexion  of  transparent  poetic  pallor, 
and  reduced  his  flesh  so  his  face  had  delicate  and  beauti- 
ful lines.  His  marble  brow,  his  brown  curly  hair,  his 
gray  eyes,  shaded  by  long  black  lashes,  his  beautiful 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxni 

mobile  mouth,  with  small  white  teeth,  his  fascinating 
chin,  small,  shapely  hands,  rich,  musical  voice,  and  irre- 
proachable manners  atoned  for  his  rather  thick  and 
artificial-looking  nose  and  his  lameness.  In  public  he 
was  cold  and  reserved;  in  private,  impetuous,  confi- 
dential, irresistible. 

The  story  of  Lady  Caroline  Lamb's  infatuation  for 
him  is  only  a  type  of  the  temptations  to  which  he  was 
subjected. 

In  October,  1812,  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray:  "  I  have 
a  poem  on  Waltzing,  of  which  I  make  you  a  present." 
Murray  did  not  think  highly  of  it,  but  published  it 
anonymously.  It  was  not  well  received;  whereupon 
Byron  wrote : — 

"  I  hear  that  a  certain  malicious  publication  on  Waltz- 
ing is  attributed  to  me.  This  report,  I  suppose,  you  will 
take  care  to  contradict,  as  the  author,  I  am  sure,  will 
not  like  that  I  should  wear  his  cap  and  bells !" 

In  May,  1813,  appeared  The  Giaour.  While  cor- 
recting the  proofs  of  the  fifth  edition,  he  wrote  in 
four  nights  The  Bride  of  Abydos.  Murray  paid  one 
thousand  guineas  for  the  two  and  for  a  few  miscel- 
laneous poems.  Byron  thought  it  too  much  for  a 
fortnight's  lucubrations.  Six  thousand  copies  of  the 
Bride  were  sold  in  less  than  a  month.  The  Cor- 
sair, written  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  lines  a  day, 
between  Dec.  18  and  31,  was  published  in  Feb- 
ruary, 1814.  Byron  gave  Mr.  Dallas  the  copyright  of 
this  poem,  which  brought  five  hundred  guineas.  Ten 
thousand  copies  were  sold  on  the  day  of  publication. 

While  the   work  was  in  press  he  added  the   Stanzas 


xxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

on  a  Lady  Weeping  which  had  been  published  anony- 
mously before  his  conversation  with  the  Prince 
Regent  whom  they  lampooned.  His  acknowledgment 
of  their  paternity  brought  upon  him  the  bitterest  attacks 
from  the  newspapers.  It  was  even  asserted  that  he 
received  large  sums  of  money  for  his  writings,  which 
was  an  insult  equivalent  to  saying  that  he  was  in  trade; 
and  in  his  galled  pride,  he  allowed  Mr.  Dallas  publicly 
to  attest  that  no  money  from  the  sale  of  his  poems  had 
"  ever  touched  his  Lordship's  hands  or  been  disposed  of 
for  his  use  !  " 

His  Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte  appeared  in  April, 
1814,  and  was  a  comparative  failure.  Byron  was  so 
cut  up  by  the  criticisms  it  called  forth  that  he  deter- 
mined to  buy  back  his  copyrights  and  suppress  every 
line  of  his  works.  He  assigned  to  Murray  as  a  reason 
only  his  own  caprice,  but  his  publisher's  protest  availed 
to  make  him  relent. 

Lara  was  published  early  in  the  following  August, 
and  by  the  2gth  had  sold  six  thousand  copies.  For  this 
Murray  paid  five  hundred  guineas. 

Byron,  who  had  been  expecting  to  sell  Newstead  for 
,£140,000,  about  this  time  regained  it  together  with  a 
forfeit  of  £25,000.     This  ready  money  did  not  suffice  to 
pay  his  debts.     In  September,  1814,  he  was  in  London. 
Murray  saw  him  and  thus  reported  the  interview :  — 
"  Says  he:   '  Can  you  keep  a  secret  ?  ' 
"  'Certainly — positively  —  my  wife  is  out  of  town.' 
"  '  Then  —  I  am  going  to  be  MARRIED  !  ' 
"  '  The  devil  !  I  shall  have  no  poem  this  winter  then?  ' 


BIOGRAPHICA^  SKETCH.  xxv 

"  '  Who  is  the  lady  wh,  is  to  do  me  this  injury?  ' 

"  '  Miss  Milbanke.'  ': 

Anne  Isabella  was  the  only  daughter  of  Sir  Ralph 
Milbanke.  She  had  a  fortune  of  j£io,ooo  and  expecta- 
tions of  seven  or  eight  thousand  a  year  from  her  uncle, 
Viscount  Wentworth.  Byron  on  his  marriage  gave  her 
^60,000.  It  was  certainly  not  a  brilliant  marriage, 
though  the  lady  was  good-looking,  a  clever  mathema- 
tician, a  poet,  and  versed  in  French,  Latin,  Italian,  and 
Greek,  and  was  regarded  as  a  paragon  of  virtue. 

There  is  no  doubt  Byron  was  in  love  with  her  or 
thought  that  he  was.  The  marriage  took  place  Jan. 
2,  1815,  and  as  the  carriage  drove  away  Lady  Byron's 
words  to  Hobhouse  were,  "  If  I  am  not  happy  it  will 
be  my  own  fault." 

At  first  they  were  happy.  Byron  wrote  to  Moore  just 
a  month  later: — 

"The  treacle-moon  is  over  and  I  am  awake  and  find 
myself  married.  My  spouse  and  I  agree  to  admiration. 
...  I  still  think  one  ought  to  marry  upon  lease  ;  but  I 
am  very  sure  I  should  renew  mine  at  the  expiration, 
though  next  term  were  ninety  and  nine  years." 

Byron  called  his  wife  "Pippin;"  she  called  him 
"Duck;"  his  sister,  who  called  him  "Baby,"  they 
both  called  "  Goose."  It  seemed  like  a  happy  family. 

Lord  Wentworth  died  in  April  and  left  the  bulk  of 
his  property  to  his  sister,  to  revert  on  her  death  to  Lady 
Byron.  This  did  not  bring  any  relief  to  Lord  Byron. 
During  the  few  months  that  they  lived  in  London  (March 
18,  iCi5,-Jan.  15,  1816)  there  were  nine  execution 
upon  them  for  debt.  And  yet  they  lived  economically. 


XXVI  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Lady  Caroline  Lamb  was  Lady  Byron's  cousin.  His 
renewed  intimacy  with  her  at  Melbourne  house  began  to 
be  a  cause  of  anxiety.  Byron  was  a  great  joker,  and 
often  his  "  chaff  "  was  coarse  and  ungentlemanly. 
Lady  Byron  was  intensely  practical  and  could  not  see  a 
joke. 

Just  before  the  daughter  Ada  was  born  Byron  undoubt- 
edly treated  his  wife  with  positive  unkindness.  She  was 
not  the  only  one  who  thought  that  he  might  be  insane. 
When  she  once  asked  him  if  she  were  in  his  way,  he 
replied,  "Damnably."  He  more  than  once  "breathed 
the  breath  of  bitter  words."  Even  if  his  statement  that 
he  married  her  out  of  revenge  for  her  having  once  refused 
him  were  a  jest,  it  was  a  cruel  one.  Once  when  pressed 
for  money  he  flung  his  watch  on  the  hearth  and  smashed 
it  with  a  poker. 

He  chewed  tobacco  and  partook  copiously  of  opium 
to  soothe  the  pangs  of  his  outraged  stomach :  he  was 
suffering  from  jaundice  and  his  mind  was  evidently  in  a 
highly  overwrought  state. 

But  the  doctors  whom  she  engaged  to  investigate  his 
state  reported  that  he  was  sane.  Lady  Byron's  former 
governess,  Mrs.  Clermon,  known  now  as  the  Mischief- 
maker,  broke  into  Byron's  private  desk  and  found  some 
compromising  letters  written  to  a  married  lady  before 
his  marriage. 

Lady  Byron  felt  justified  in  leaving  her  husband.  The 
decision  was  made  known  to  him  Feb.  2,  1816.  He  at 
first  refused  to  sign  the  private  agreement,  and  only  con- 
sented when  it  was  threatened  that  the  case  would  be 
taken  into  court. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XXVll 

About  this  time,  Jane  Clairmont,  a  step-daughter  of 
William  Godwin,  applied  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  for  a 
position  as  an  actress.  Byron,  who  was  on  the  so-called 
Board  of  Mis-management,  took  a  fancy  to  her.  She 
become  the  mother  of  his  favorite  natural  daughter, 
Allegra. 

The  scandal  of  the  separation  brought  down  upon 
Lord  Byron  a  perfect  storm  of  calumnies.  Such  storms 
sour  the  milk  of  human  kindness. 

He  was  advised  not  to  go  to  the  House  of  Lords  lest 
he  should  be  mobbed.  "  I  was  accused,"  he  wrote,  "  of 
every  monstrous  vice  by  public  rumor  and  private  ran- 
cor. ...  I  felt  that  if  what  was  whispered  and  mut- 
tered and  murmured  was  true,  I  was  unfit  for  England; 
if  false,  England  was  unfit  for  me." 

As  for  the  reasons  for  their  separation  Byron  later 
declared  that  they  were  "  too  simple  to  be  found  out." 
It  is  certain  that  Lady  Byron  kept  up  her  friendship 
with  Augusta  Leigh  until  1830,  so  that  the  story  circu- 
lated by  Mrs.  Stowe  seems  to  be  effectually  disproved. 

The  turning  of  English  society  against  Lord  Byron 
was  one  of  the  most  curious  phenomena  of  history.  But 
the  explanation  is  not  far  to  seek.  Byron  painted  a 
portrait  in  the  blackest  colors.  The  world  believed  that 
he  himself  was  the  model,  and  accepted  the  likeness  in 
spite  of  his  disclaimer.  The  men  of  his  own  order  hated 
him  because  he  did  not  lead  their  life.  Politically  he 
was  dangerous;  he  had  outraged  the  religious  suscepti- 
bilities of  the  English  Philistines.  He  became  the 
scapegoat  of  the  nobility — attacked  by  all  classes. 

Lady  Caroline  Lamb  wrote  a  novel  showing  under  a 


xx vill  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

thin  disguise  how  he  treated  ladies  who  compromised 
themselves  for  his  sake. 

Just  before  he  left  England,  Lady  Jersey  braved  public 
opinion  and  gave  a  party  in  his  honor.  Even  there  he 
was  snubbed  and  avoided. 

He  left  England,  April  25,  1816,  never  to  return. 
Near  Geneva  he  met  Shelley,  who,  having  deserted  his 
wife,  was  travelling  with  the  brilliant  Mary  Wollstone- 
craft  Godwin  who  had  already  taken  his  name.  Her 
step-sister,  Jane  Clairmont,  was  with  them.  However 
subversive  of  morals  such  a  combination  may  have  been, 
it  was  favorable  to  poetry.  During  the  sojourn  on  the 
Swiss  lake,  Byron  wrote  much  of  the  third  canto  of 
Childe  Harold,  The  Prisoner  of  Chilian,  and  other 
poems  ;  Shelley  read  and  meditated  ;  "  Mrs."  Shelley 
produced  her  tremendous  story  of  Frankenstein. 

The  English  tourists,  who  deliberately  cut  the  poets 
and  their  loves,  gratified  their  curiosity  by  spying  upon 
them  through  telescopes.  All  sorts  of  monstrous  stories 
were  reported.  Doubtless  Byron  with  his  penchant  for 
making  himself  out  worse  than  he  was,  deliberately 
contributed  to  the  scandal. 

Madame  de  Stael  (who  after  reading  his  farewell  lines 
had  exclaimed,  "How  gladly  would  I  have  been  un- 
happy in  Lady  Byron's  place!  ")  was  living  at  Coppet. 
Byron  went  to  call  upon  her.  A  lady  novelist  "of 
mature  virtue  and  maturer  years  "  fainted  at  the  announce- 
ment of  his  presence  ! 

In  Switzerland  Byron  tried  to  arrange  for  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  his  wife.  She  refused  it.  After  that  his  feel- 
ings toward  her  changed  to  bitterness,  and  he  wrote  r 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxix 

number  of  savage  lines  which  would  better  have  been 
left  unwritten.  Here  also  he  composed  parts  of  Man- 
fred, Prometheus,  and  other  poems  inspired  by  the 
Alps  and  showing  the  influence  of  Wordsworth  and  pos- 
sibly that  of  Goethe.  He  now  began  to  take  pay  for  his 
writings.  Between  1816  and  1821  Murray  paid  him  over 
twelve  thousand  pounds.  For  the  third  and  fourth 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold  he  received  ^3,675,  equiva- 
lent probably  at  the  present  time  to  nearly  $25,000. 

In  October,  1816,  Byron  went  down  to  Italy  and 
settled  in  Venice. 

Old  Roger  Ascham  says  of  Italy:  — 

"  She  is  able  to  turne  a  saint  into  a  devil  and  deprave 
the  best  natures,  if  one  will  abandon  himselfe  and  become 
a  prey  to  dissolute  courses  and  wantonesse." 

There  is  an  old  proverb,  "  An  italianate  Inglischyeman 
is  an  Incarnate  Devil."  Byron  for  a  time  at  least  proved 
the  truth  of  this  proverb. 

It  seemed  as  if  he  wanted  to  commit  a  sort  of  lingering 
suicide.  A  weary,  homesick,  conscience-stricken  exile, 
he  exhausted  his  strength  by  low  debaucheries.  Hith- 
erto, for  the  most  part,  abstemious  and  temperate,  he  now 
became  a  glutton,  and  imbibed  quantities  of  brandy. 
His  propensity  to  corpulency  returned  upon  him.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  troubled  with  malaria  and  sleep- 
lessness. His  palace  was  filled  with  lewd  revellers.  One 
of  his  mistresses  was  the  wife  of  a  gondolier  —  scarcely 
more  cultured  than  a  fishwife. 

This  wretched,  prodigal  life  lasted  till  early  in  1819, 
when  he  suddenly  began  to  have  better  thoughts.  He 
wrote  Tom  Moore:  "  I  was  obliged  to  reform  my  'way 


XXX  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

of  life  '  which  was  conducting  me  from  the  '  yellow  leaf ' 
to  the  ground  with  all  deliberate  speed.  I  am  better  in 
health  and  morals." 

At  Venice  he  wrote  Beppo,  Afazefpa,  and  the  early 
cantos  of  Don  yuan.  The  Venetians  called  him 
"the  English  fish,"  and  declared  that  he  "dived  for  his 
poetry  ' ' !  They  had  good  reason :  one  day  he  swam 
from  the  Lido  to  the  farther  end  of  the  grand  canal, 
being  four  hours  and  twenty  minutes  in  the  water  without 
touching  bottom.  His  income  about  this  time  amounted 
to  about  ^4,000  a  year :  he  gave  away  a  quarter  of  it  in 
charity.  Many  who  regularly  received  his  benefactions 
never  knew  from  whom  they  came.  Though  so  cynical 
—  and  with  good  reason  —  Byron  was  remarkably  kind 
to  every  one.  His  servants  adored  him. 

At  a  reception  at  the  Countess  Benzoni's  in  April, 
1819,  Byron  was  presented  to  the  sixteen-year-old  wife 
of  Count  Guiccioli  —  a  pretty  blonde  with  fair  skin  and 
yellow  hair.  Her  husband  was  about  four  times  as  old 
as  she,  and  very  rich. 

Byron  became  her  cicisbeo  or  legalized  lover.  This 
curious  state  of  things  was  peculiar  to  Italy :  the  marriage 
de  convenance  demanded  a  correction  in  some  acknowledg- 
ment of  human  nature.  The  lady  with  a  husband  whom 
she  did  not  love  had  a  cavalier  servente  whom  she  did 
love. 

Byron  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray :  — 

"  Their  system  has  its  rules  and  its  fitnesses  and  its 
decorums,  so  as  to  be  reduced  to  a  kind  of  discipline  or 
game  at  hearts,  which  admits  few  deviations,  unless 
you  wish  to  lose  it.  ...  They  transfer  marriage  to  adul- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xxxi 

tery  and  strike  the  not  out  of  that  commandment.  The 
reason  is  that  they  marry  for  their  parents  and  love  for 
themselves." 

Byron  prefaced  this  explanation  by  declaring  that  the 
Englishman  could  not  appreciate  such  an  order  of  things. 
"Their  moral  is  not  your  moral,  their  life  is  not  your 
life  ;  you  would  not  understand  it."  Byron  himself  at 
first  found  it  hard  to  understand  it.  The  count  came  to 
call  upon  him  and  took  him  out  to  drive  in  his  coach  and 
six.  He  showed  no  jealousy  when  the  countess  accom- 
panied Byron  on  an  excursion  that  lasted  several  days. 
He  tned  to  borrow  money  of  him.  He  even  lodged  him 
at  his  palace  at  Ravenna,  and  made  him  pay  dear  for  the 
privilege.  Byron  was  warned  that  the  count  might  cause 
him  to  be  assassinated,  and  for  some  time  he  went  armed. 

After  a  sudden  fit  of  propriety,  in  which  the  husband 
demanded  that  there  should  be  no  more  communi- 
cation between  the  lady  and  her  lover,  the  lady  fell  ill. 
Then  even  her  father  begged  Byron  to  hasten  to  her 
side:  the  count  became  complaisant  again  and  remained 
so  till  July,  1820,  when  the  Pope,  at  the  solicitation  of 
herself  and  friends,  pronounced  a  separation  beween  the 
husband  and  wife. 

Byron  had  made  the  count's  house  a  headquarters  foi 
the  revolutionary  movement.  When  the  Carbonari  in- 
surrection was  supressed,  several  of  the  countess's  family 
were  involved.  The  Gambas  were  banished  from  the 
Romagna,  and  took  refuge  first  in  Florence,  then  in 
Pisa. 

Byron  joined  them  there  in  November,  1882.  Shelley 
wrote  about  this  time:  — 


xxxi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

"He  has  completely  recovered  his  health,  and  lives  a 
life  totally  the  reverse  ot  that  which  he  led  in  Venice. 
.  .  .  Poor  fellow  !  he  is  completely  immersed  in  politics 
and  literature  ...  is  greatly  improved  in  every  respect, 
in  genius  v  temper,  in  moral  views,  in  health  and  happi- 
ness. His  connection  with  La  Guiccioli  has  been  an 
inestimable  benefit  to  him." 

With  all  respect  to  Shelley,  we  may  doubt  if  his  judg- 
ment on  such  a  point  be  accepted  as  correct.  Still  the 
countess  doubtless  caused  him  to  modify  Don  Juan  for 
the  better.  It  was  during  these  months  that  he  wrote 
his  dramatic  works. 

Byron  had  found  an  object  in  life.  Disappointed  in 
not  having  succeeded  in  home  politics,  he  knew  that  he 
was  meant  for  public  affairs.  He  threw  himself  into  the 
popular  cause  of  Italy.  He  foresaw  what  it  would  be  if 
freed  and  unified.  But  at  that  time  it  was  still  only  a 
dream.  The  Austrian  monster  with  its  two  heads  still 
held  the  country  in  its  gripe. 

Byron  spent  almost  a  year  in  Pisa.  While  there  he 
received  a  letter  from  an  English  clergyman  informing 
him  of  a  prayer  for  his  conversion  offered  by  his  recently 
deceased  wife.  Byron  replied:  "  I  would  not  exchange 
the  prayer  of  this  pure  and  virtuous  being  in  my  behalf 
for  the  united  glory  of  Homer,  Caesar,  and  Napoleon." 

While  there  he  also  wrote  the  pathetic  letter  to  his 
wife  asking  reconciliation  on  account  of  their  daughter. 
It  was  never  sent.  The  daughter  Ada  was  growing  up 
in  utter  ignorance  of  her  father.  Only  a  few  weeks 
before  her  death  in  1852,  she  read  her  father's  poems 
and  learned  how  she  whom  he  had  never  seen  had 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCh,          XXXlll 

been  the  very  idol  of  his  heart.  Then  she  askeci  co  oe 
buried  near  him.  This  seems  the  most  touching  thing 
in  the  whole  sad  story. 

Leigh  Hunt  came  to  Pisa,  and  was  Byron's  pensioner, 
afterwards  repaying  his  generosity  by  scurrilous  abuse. 
He  and  Byron  entered  into  a  sort  of  literary  partner- 
ship; they  established  the  Liberal,  to  which  Byron  con- 
tributed The  Vision  of  Judgment  and  a  few  other  poems. 
It  was  not  a  successful  venture. 

During  the  summer  of  1822  Shelley  was  drowned  in 
the  Gulf  of  Spezzia.  Byron  was  present  at  the  cremation 
of  the  body,  and  after  it  was  over  was  seized  with  a 
strange  delirious  hilarity.  He  afterwards  wrote  that  per- 
haps the  world  which  had  been  ill-naturedly,  ignorantly, 
and  brutally  mistaken  about  Shelley,  would  now,  when  it 
was  too  late,  do  him  justice.  This  same  summer  his 
natural  daughter  Allegra,  whom  he  was  bringing  up  in 
the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  died. 

In  July  the  Gambas  were  exiled  from  Pisa,  and  Byron 
went  with  them  to  Genoa,  where  he  wrote  two  of  the 
last  extant  cantos  of  Don  yuan.  Cantos  six  to  eleven 
were  written  at  Pisa.  At  this  time  Lady  Blessington, 
who  saw  much  of  him,  thus  described  his  appearance:  — 

"  One  of  Byron's  eyes  was  larger  than  the  other  ;  his  nose 
was  rather  thick,  so  he  was  best  seen  in  profile ;  his  mouth 
was  splendid,  and  his  scornful  expression  was  real,  not 
affected,  but  a  sweet  smile  often  broke  through  his  melan- 
choly. He  was  at  this  time  very  pale  and  thin.  His  hair  was 
dark  brown,  here  and  there  turning  to  gray.  His  voice  was 
harmonious,  clear,  and  low." 

The  war  of  Greece  against  Turkey  had  been  going  on 
for  two  years.  Byron's  attention  was  drawn  to  it.  He 


xxxiv        BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

threw  himself  into  the  noble  cause  with  the  greatest 
ardor.  He  was  perhaps  tired  of  his  shallow  Italian 
mistress,  with  whom  he  had  thought  of  emigrating  to 
America.  He  longed  for  action.  Newstead  had  been 
sold,  and  after  paying  Lady  Byron  her  share  (which  she 
took  without  scruple),  he  had  a  small  fortune  remaining. 
In  1822  his  mother-fl/-law  (as  he  called  his  wife's 
mother)  died,  and  he,  without  any  scruple,  added  the 
Wentworth  name  of  Noel  to  his  own,  and  took  his  half 
of  the  estate.  This  gave  him  enough  ready  money  to 
enable  him  to  go  to  Greece  in  the  guise  of  a  general 
paymaster. 

He  hired  the  brig  Hercules,  and,  accompanied  by 
Trelawny,  Count  Pietro  Gamba  (La  Guiccioli's  brother, 
who  had  conceived  a  strong  affection  for  him),  and  sev- 
eral servants,  he  embarked  for  Greece,  July  14,  1822. 
On  board  he  had  two  small  cannon  and  other  arms,  five 
horses,  medicines,  and  $50,000  in  Spanish  coin. 

Coming  in  sight  of  the  Morea,  lie  remarked  that  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  the  eleven  lent*  years  of  bitterness 
which  he  had  just  passed  through  were  taken  from  his 
shoulders. 

Byron's  services  in  the  Greek  campaign  were  quickly 
cut  short  by  his  illness  at  Mesolonghi.  But  in  the  few 
weeks  of  his  presence  he  displayed  remarkable  sagacity 
and  wisdom  in  dealing  with  refractory  elements.  He 
saw  that  united  action  was  necessary,  and  he  bent  all  his 
energies  to  bringing  about  peace  between  rival  factions. 

He  spent  his  money  with  liberality  but  with  diplo- 
macy. If  he  had  lived  to  see  the  success  of  Greece,  he 
would  not  unlikely  have  been  offered  the  throne. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XXXV 

He  was  made  archistrategos  of  the  turbulent  Suliotes, 
whose  favor  he  won  by  his  skill  with  the  pistol,  and 
was  about  to  undertake  an  expedition  against  Lepanto 
when  he  was  seized  with  a  fit.  He  had  been  living  too 
abstemiously  on  toast,  vegetables,  and  cheese.  The  doc- 
tors still  further  weakened  him  by  bleeding. 

Mesolonghi  was  situated  on  a  malarial  swamp.  Byron 
was  always  subject  to  attacks  of  fever.  He  was  now 
doomed.  Before  he  could  attend  the  Greek  Congress  as 
commissioner  of  the  long-delayed  but  at  last  granted 
English  loan,  in  April,  1824,  he  was  on  his  death-bed. 

He  tried  to  intrust  certain  messages  to  Fletcher,  his 
body  servant,  but  his  voice  had  failed.  After  many 
pathetic  mutterings  showing  his  love  for  his  daughter, 
his  last  words  were,  "  Now  I  shall  go  to  sleep." 

He  died  at  quarter  past  six  on  the  evening  of  April 
19,  1824,  during  a  terrific  thunder-storm.  Princely 
honors  were  paid  him.  The  Greeks  desired  him  to  be 
buried  in  the  temple  of  Theseus  at  Athens,  but  bis 
friends  wished  him  to  be  placed  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

This  was  not  allowed  by  the  dean;  and  Byron  now 
rests  in  the  church  of  his  ancestors  at  Hucknall. 

Such  was  the  stormy  life  of  Lord  Byron,  so  magnifi- 
cently ending,  — 

"  A  man  of  many  thoughts, 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both, 
Fatal  and  fated  in  his  sufferings." 

It  is  a  tremendous  lesson  of  the  importance  of  char- 
acter. Inheritance  and  education  may  handicap,  but 
man's  will  can  overcome.  The  ready  words  of  censure 


xxxvi        BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

are  modified  when  one  reads  of  the  temptations,  the 
environment,  and  the  final  outcome.  The  sin  bore  its 
own  punishment.  We  may  only  look  on  and  learn  and 
at  the  last  admire.  Even  his  poems  show  his  growth. 
So  ill-educated  that  he  thought  Helicon  was  a  spring  and 
pronounced  camelopard  as  though  it  were  camel-leopard, 
that  he  could  endure  false  rhymes  and  false  quantities, 
still  he  wrote  an  enduring  mass  of  noble  verse  which 
the  world  will  always  treasure. 

"  I  am  like  the  tiger,"  he  wrote;  "  if  I  miss  the  first 
spring,  I  go  grumbling  back  to  my  jungle  again,  but  if 
I  do  hit,  it  is  crushing." 

His  greatest  failings  were  sensuality,  which  came  by 
inheritance,  selfishness  uncorrected  by  his  training,  and 
vanity  stimulated  by  the  capricious  treatment  of  him  by 
the  world.  His  generosity,  tenderness  of  feeling,  and 
public  spirit  were  compensating  virtues.  He  might 
have  died  a  victim  to  his  worse  passions.  It  was  or- 
dained that  he  should  perish  a  sacrifice  to  the  land 
which  he  loved  even  better  than  his  native  land.  Thus 
the  blaze  of  his  glory  throws  into  shadow  the  sad  mis- 
takes which  made  his  career  so  unenviable.  Full  of 
contradictions,  the  warring  elements  of  his  nature  seem 
to  personify  the  fabled  eternal  strife  between  Ormuzd 
and  Ahriman. 

It  it  a  beautiful  thought  that  here  as  always  the  highei 
at  last  is  victorious  over  the  lower,  light  over  darkness. 

NATHAN  HASKELL  DOLE, 


CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF 
BYRON'S  POEMS. 


Fugitive  Pieces  (suppressed),  1806. 
Poems  on  Various  Occasions,  1807. 
Hours  of  Idleness,  1807. 
English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  1809. 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage, 
Cantos  i.,  ii.,  1812. 

iii.,  1816. 

iv.,  1818. 

Curse  of  Minerva,  1812. 
Waltz,  1813. 
The  Giaour,  1813. 
The  Bride  of  Abydos,  1813. 
The  Corsair,  1814. 
Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  1814. 
Lara,  1814. 

Hebrew  Melodies,  1815. 
Siege  of  Corinth  and  Parisina,  1816. 
Poems  on  his  Domestic  Circumstances,  1816. 
The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  1816. 
Monody  on  the  Death  of  Sheridan,  1816. 
Manfred,  1817. 
The  Lament  of  Tasso,  1817. 

xxxvii 


xxxvni  LIST  OF  BYRON'S  POEMS. 

Beppo,  1818. 

Mazeppa,  1819. 

Don  Juan,  i.  ii.,  1819. 

iii.,  iv.,  v.,  1821. 

vi.,  vii.,  viii.,  1823. 

ix.,  x.,  xi.,  1823. 

xii.,  xiii.,  xiv.,  1823. 

xv.,  xvi.,  1824. 

Marino  Faliero  and  Prophecy  of  Dante,  1821. 
Sardanapalus;  The  Two  Foscari;  Cain,  1821. 
Letter  on  the  Rev.  W.  L.  Bowles's  Strictures  on  Pope, 

1821. 

The  Vision  of  Judgment,  1822. 
Morganti  Maggiore,  1823. 
Werner;   The  Age  of  Bronze,  1823. 
The  Island,  1824. 

The  Deformed  Transformed;    Parliamentary  Speeches, 
1824. 


PREFACE. 


WHEN  at  last  I  held  in  my  hand  the  volume  of  poems 
which  I  had  chosen  from  Wordsworth,  and  began  to 
turn  over  its  pages,  there  arose  in  me  almost  immedi- 
ately the  desire  to  see  beside  it,  as  a  companion  volume, 
a  like  collection  of  the  best  poetry  of  Byron.  Alone 
amongst  our  poets  of  the  earlier  part  of  this  century, 
Byron  and  Wordsworth  not  only  furnish  material  enough 
for  a  volume  of  this  kind,  but,  also,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
they  both  of  them  gain  considerably  by  being  thus  ex- 
hibited. There  are  poems  of  Coleridge  and  of  Keats 
equal,  if  not  superior,  to  anything  of  Byron  or  Words- 
worth; but  a  dozen  pages  or  two  will  contain  them, 
and  the  remaining  poetry  is  of  a  -quality  much  inferior. 
Scott  never,  I  think,  rises  as  a  poet  to  the  level  of  Byron 
and  Wordsworth  at  all.  On  the  other  hand,  he  never 
falls  below  his  own  usual  level  very  far;  and  by  a  volume 
of  selections  from  him,  therefore,  his  effectiveness  is  not 
increased.  As  to  Shelley  there  will  be  more  question; 
and  indeed  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke,  whose  accomplish- 
ments, eloquence,  and  love  of  poetry  we  must  all  recog- 
nize and  admire,  has  actually  given  us  Shelley  in  such 
a  volume.  But  for  my  own  part  I  cannot  think  that 
Shelley's  poetry,  except  by  snatches  and  fragments,  has 


xl  PREFACE. 

the  value  of  the  good  work  of  Wordsworth  and  Byron; 
or  that  it  is  possible  for  even  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke  to 
make  up  a  volume  of  selections  from  him  which,  for  real 
substance,  power,  and  worth,  can  at  all  take  rank  with  a 
like  volume  from  Byron  or  Wordsworth. 

Shelley  knew  quite  well  the  difference  between  the 
achievement  of  such  a  poet  as  Byron  and  his  own.  He 
praises  Byron  too  unreservedly,  but  he  sincerely  felt,  and 
he  was  right  in  feeling,  that  Byron  was  a  greater  poetical 
power  than  himself.  As  a  man,  Shelley  is  at  a  number  ot 
points  immeasurably  Byron's  superior;  he  is  a  beautiful 
and  enchanting  spirit,  whose  vision  when  we  call  it  up, 
.has  far  more  loveliness,  more  charm  for  our  soul,  than  the 
vision  of  Byron.  But  all  the  personal  charm  of  Shelley 
cannot  hinder  us  from  at  last  discovering  in  his  poetry 
the  incurable  want,  in  general,  of  a  sound  subject-matter, 
and  the  incurable  fault,  in  consequence,  of  unsubstan- 
tiality.  Those  who  extol  him  as  the  poet  of  clouds,  the 
poet  of  sunsets,  are  only  saying  that  he  did  not,  in  fact, 
lay  hold  upon  the  poet's  right  subject-matter;  and  in 
honest  truth,  with  all  his  charm  of  soul  and  spirit,  and 
with  all  his  gift  of  musical  diction  and  movement,  he 
never  or  hardly  ever,  did.  Except,  as  I  have  said,  for 
a  few  short  things  and  single  stanzas,  his  original  poetry 
is  less  satisfactory  than  his  translations,  for  in  these  the 
subject-matter  was  found  for  him.  Nay,  I  doubt  whether 
his  delightful  Essays  and  Letters,  which  deserve  to  be 
far  more  read  than  they  are  now,  will  not  resist  the  wear 
and  tear  of  time  better,  and  finally  come  to  stand  higher 
than  his  poetry. 

There  remain  to  be  considered  Byron  and  Wordsworth. 


PREFACE.  xli 

That  Wordsworth  affords  good  material  for  a  volume  of 
selections,  and  that  he  gains  by  having  his  poetry  thus 
presented,  is  an  old  belief  of  mine  which  led  me  lately  to 
make  up  a  volume  of  poems  chosen  out  of  Wordsworth, 
and  to  bring  it  before  the  public.  By  its  kind  reception 
of  the  volume,  the  public  seems  to  show  itself  a  partaker 
in  my  belief.  Now  Byron,  also,  supplies  plenty  of 
material  for  a  like  volume,  and  he  too  gains,  I  think,  by 
being  so  presented.  Mr.  Swinburne  urges,  indeed,  that 
"  Byron,  who  rarely  wrote  anything  either  worthless  or 
faultless,  can  only  be  judged  or  appreciated  in  the  mass; 
the  greatest  of  his  works  was  his  whole  work  taken 
together."  It  is  quite  true  that  Byron  rarely  wrote  any- 
thing either  worthless  or  faultless;  it  is  quite  true,  also, 
that  in  the  appreciation  of  Byron's  power  a  sense  of  the 
amount  and  variety  of  his  work,  defective  though  much 
of  his  work  is,  enters  justly  into  our  estimate.  But 
although  there  may  be  little  in  Byron's  poetry  which  can 
be  pronounced  either  worthless  or  faultless,  there  are 
portions  of  it  which  are  far  higher  in  worth  and  far  more 
free  from  fault  than  others.  And  although,  again,  the 
abundance  and  variety  of  his  production  is  undoubtedly 
a  proof  of  his  power,  yet  I  question  whether  by  reading 
everything  which  he  gives  us  we  are  so  likely  to  acquire 
an  admiring  sense  even  of  his  variety  and  abundance,  as 
by  reading  what  he  gives  us  at  his  happier  moments. 
Varied  and  abundant  he  amply  proves  himself  even  by 
this  taken  alone.  Receive  him  absolutely  without  omis- 
sion or  compression,  follow  his  whole  outpouring  stanza 
by  stanza  and  line  by  line  from  the  very  commencement 
to  the  very  end,  and  he  is  capable  of  being  tiresome. 


xlii  PREFACE. 

Byron  has  told  us  himself  that  the  Giaour  "is  but  a 
string  of  passages."  He  has  made  full  confession  of  his 
own  negligence.  "  No  one,"  says  he,  "has  done  more 
through  negligence  to  corrupt  the  language."  This  accu- 
sation brought  by  himself  against  his  poems  is  not  just; 
but  when  he  goes  on  to  say  of  them,  that  "  their  faults, 
whatever  they  may  be,  are  those  of  negligence  and  not 
of  labor,"  he  says  what  is  perfectly  true.  "  Lara,"  he 
declares,  "  I  wrote  while  undressing  after  coming  home 
from  balls  and  masquerades,  in  the  year  of  revelry,  1814. 
The  Bride  was  written  in  four,  the  Corsair  in  ten  days." 
He  calls  this  "a  humiliating  confession,  as  it  proves  my 
own  want  of  judgment  in  publishing,  and  the  public's  in 
reading,  things  which  cannot  have  stamina  for  perma- 
nence." Again  he  does  his  poems  injustice;  the  producer 
of  such  poems  could  not  but  publish  them,  the  public 
could  not  but  read  them.  Nor  could  Byron  have  pro- 
duced his  work  in  any  other  fashion;  his  poetic  work 
could  not  have  first  grown  and  matured  in  his  own  mind, 
and  then  come  forth  as  an  organic  whole;  Byron  had 
not  enough  of  the  artist  in  him  for  this,  nor  enough  of 
self-command.  He  wrote,  as  he  truly  tells  us,  to  relieve 
himself,  and  he  went  on  writing  because  he  found  the 
relief  become  indispensable.  But  it  was  inevitable  that 
works  so  produced  should  be,  in  general,  "a  string  of 
passages,"  poured  out,  as  he  describes  them,  with  rapidity 
and  excitement,  and  with  new  passages  constantly  sug- 
gesting themselves,  and  added  while  his  work  was  going 
through  the  press.  It  is  evident  that  we  have  -here 
neither  deliberate  scientific  construction,  nor  yet  the  in- 
stinctive artistic  creation  of  poetic  wholes;  and  that  to 


PREFACE.  xliii 

take  passages  from  work  produced  as  Byron's  was  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  taking  passages  out  of  the 
(Edipus  or  the  Tempest,  and  deprives  the  poetry  far  less 
of  its  advantage. 

Nay,  it  gives  advantage  to  the  poetry,  instead  of  de- 
priving it  of  any.  Byron,  I  said,  has  not  a  great  artist's 
profound  and  patient  skill  in  combining  an  action  or  in 
developing  a  character,  —  a  skill  which  we  must  watch 
and  follow  if  we  are  to  do  justice  to  it.  But  he  has  a 
wonderful  power  of  vividly  conceiving  a  single  incident, 
a  single  situation;  of  throwing  himself  upon  it,  grasping 
it  as  if  it  were  real  and  he  saw  and  felt  it,  and  of  making 
us  see  and  feel  it  too.  The  Giaour  is,  as  he  truly  called 
it,  "a  string  of  passages,"  not  a  work  moving  by  a  deep 
internal  law  of  development  to  a  necessary  end;  and 
our  total  impression  from  it  cannot  but  receive  from  this, 
its  inherent  defect,  a  certain  dimness  and  indistinctness. 
But  the  incidents  of  the  journey  and  death  of  Hassan, 
in  that  poem,  are  conceived  and  presented  with  a  vivid- 
ness not  to  be  surpassed;  and  our  impression  from  them 
is  correspondingly  clear  and  powerful.  In  Lara,  again, 
there  is  no  adequate  developement  either  of  the  character 
of  the  chief  personage  or  of  the  action  of  the  poem;  our 
total  impression  from  the  work  is  a  confused  one.  Yet 
such  an  incident  as  the  disposal  of  the  slain  Ezzelin's 
body  passes  before  our  eyes  as  if  we  actually  saw  it. 
And  in  the  same  way  as  these  bursts  of  incident,  bursts 
of  sentiment  also,  living  and  vigorous,  often  occur  in  the 
midst  of  poems  which  must  be  admitted  to  be  weakly 
conceived  and  loosely  combined  wholes.  Byron  cannot 
but  be  a  gainer  by  having  attention  concentrated  upon 


xliv  PREFACE. 

what  is  vivid,  powerful,  effective  in  his  work,  and  with- 
drawn from  what  is  not  so. 

Byron,  I  say,  cannot  but  be  a  gainer  by  this,  just  as 
Wordsworth  is  a  gainer  by  a  like  proceeding.  I  esteem 
Wordsworth's  poetry  so  highly,  and  the  world,  in  my 
opinion,  has  done  it  such  scant  justice,  that  I  could  not 
rest  satisfied  until  I  had  fulfilled,  on  Wordsworth's  be- 
half, a  long-cherished  desire; — had  disengaged,  to  the 
best  of  my  power,  his  good  work  from  the  inferior  work 
joined  with  it,  and  had  placed  before  the  public  the 
body  of  his  good  work  by  itself.  To  the  poetry  of  Byron 
the  world  has  ardently  paid  homage;  full  justice  from 
his  contemporaries,  perhaps  even  more  than  justice,  his 
torrent  of  poetry  received.  His  poetry  was  admired, 
adored,  "  with  all  its  imperfections  on  its  head,"  —  in 
spite  of  negligence,  in  spite  of  diffuseness,  in  spite  of 
repetitions,  in  spite  of  whatever  faults  it  possessed. 
His  name  is  still  great  and  brilliant.  Nevertheless  the 
hour  of  irresistible  vogue  has  passed  away  for  him;  even 
for  Byron  it  could  not  but  pass  away.  The  time  has 
come  for  him,  as  it  comes  for  all  poets,  when  he  must 
take  his  real  and  permanent  place,  no  longer  depending 
upon  the  vogue  of  his  own  day  and  upon  the  enthusi- 
asm of  his  contemporaries.  Whatever  we  may  think  of 
him,  we  shall  not  be  subjugated  by  him  as  they  were  ; 
for,  as  he  cannot  be  for  us  what  he  was  for  them,  we 
cannot  admire  him  so  hotly  and  indiscriminately  as  they. 
His  faults  of  negligence,  of  diffuseness,  of  repetition, 
his  faults  of  whatever  kind,  we  shall  abundantly  feel 
and  unsparingly  criticise  ;  the  mere  interval  of  time 
between  us  and  him  makes  disillusion  of  this  kind 


PREFACE.  xlv 

inevitable.  But  how  then  will  Byron  stand,  if  we  re- 
lieve him  too,  so  far  as  we  can,  of  the  encumbrance  of 
his  inferior  and  weakest  work,  and  if  we  bring  before  us 
his  best  and  strongest  work  in  one  body  together?  That 
is  the  question  which  I,  who  can  even  remember  the 
latter  years  of  Byron's  vogue,  and  have  myself  felt  the 
expiring  wave  of  that  mighty  influence,  but  who  cer- 
tainly also  regard  him,  and  have  long  regarded  him, 
without  illusion,  cannot  but  ask  myself,  cannot  but  seek 
to  answer.  The  present  volume  is  an  attempt  to  pro- 
vide adequate  data  for  answering  it. 

Byron  has  been  over-praised,  no  doubt.  "  Byron  is 
one  of  our  French  superstitions,"  says  M.  Edmond 
Scherer;  but  where  has  Byron  not  been  a  superstition? 
He  pays  now  the  penalty  of  this  exaggerated  worship. 
"Alone  among  the  English  poets  his  contemporaries 
Byron,"  said  M.  Taine,  "atteint  £  la  rime, — gets  to 
the  top  of  the  poetic  mountain."  But  the  idol  that  M. 
Taine  had  thus  adored  M.  Scherer  is  almost  for  burning. 
"In  Byron,"  he  declares,  "there  is  a  remarkable 
inability  ever  to  lift  himself  into  the  region  of  real 
poetic  art — art  impersonal  and  disinterested  —  at  all. 
He  has  fecundity,  eloquence,  wit,  but  even  these  qual- 
ities themselves  are  confined  within  somewhat  narrow 
limits.  He  has  treated  hardly  any  subject  but  one,  — 
himself;  now  the  man,  in  Byron,  is  of  a  nature  even 
less  sincere  than  the  poet.  This  beautiful  and  blighted 
being  is  at  bottom  a  coxcomb.  He  posed  all  his  life 
long." 

Our  poet  could  not  well  meet  with  more  severe  and 
unsympathetic  criticism,  However,  the  praise  often 


xlvi  PREFACE. 

given  to  Byron  has  been  so  exaggerated  as  to  provoke, 
perhaps,  a  reaction  in  which  he  is  unduly  disparaged. 
"As  various  in  composition  as  Shakspeare  himself,  Lord 
Byron  has  embraced,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "every 
topic  of  human  life,  and  sounded  every  string  on  the 
divine  harp,  from  its  slightest  to  its  most  powerful  and 
heart-astounding  tones."  It  is  not  surprising  that  some 
one  with  a  cool  head  should  retaliate,  on  such  provoca- 
tion as  this,  by  saying:  "He  has  treated  hardly  any 
subject  but  one,  himself."  "  In  the  very  grand  and 
tremendous  drama  of  Cain,"  says  Scott,  "Lord  Byron 
has  certainly  matched  Milton  on  his  own  ground." 
And  Lord  Byron  has  done  all  this,  Scott  adds,  "  while 
managing  his  pen  with  the  careless  and  negligent  ease 
of  a  man  of  quality."  Alas,  "managing  his  pen  with 
the  careless  and  negligent  ease  of  a  man  of  quality," 
Byron  wrote  in  his  Cain  : 

"  Souls  that  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tell  him  that 
His  evil  is  not  good  ;  " 

or  he  wrote : 

".  .  .  And  thoti  would'st  go  on  aspiring 
To  the  great  double  Mysteries  !  the  two  Principles  .'  "  * 

One  has  only  to  repeat  to  one's  self  a  line  from  Paradise 
Lost  in  order  to  feel  the  difference. 

Sainte-Beuve,  speaking  of  that  exquisite  master  of 
language,  the  Italian  poet  Leopardi,  remarks  how  often 
we  see  the  alliance,  singular  though  it  may  at  first  sight 

1  The  italics  are  in  the  original. 


PREFACE.  xlvii 

appear,  of  the  poetical  genius  with  the  genius  for  scholar- 
ship and  philology.  Dante  and  Milton  are  instances 
which  will  occur  to  every  one's  mind.  Byron  is  so  neg- 
ligent in  his  poetical  style,  he  is  often,  to  say  the  truth, 
so  slovenly,  slipshod,  and  infelicitous,  he  is  so  little 
haunted  by  the  true  artist's  fine  passion  for  the  correct 
use  and  consummate  management  of  words,  that  he 
may  be  described  as  having  for  this  artistic  gift  the 
insensibility  of  the  barbarian; — which  is  perhaps  only 
another  and  a  less  flattering  way  of  saying,  with  Scott, 
that  he  "  manages  his  pen  with  the  careless  and  negli- 
gent ease  of  a  man  of  quality."  Just  of  a  piece  with 
the  rhythm  of 

"  Dare  you  await  the  event  of  a  few  minutes' 
Deliberation  ?" 

or  of 

"All  shall  be  void  — 
Destroy 'd!" 

is  the  diction  of 

"  Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  to  rise ;  " 

or  of 

".         .         .         .         there  let  him  lay  I " 

or  of  the  famous  passage  beginning 

"  He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead ;  " 

with  those  trailing  relatives,  that  crying  grammatical 
solecism,  that  inextricable  anacolouthon !  To  class  the 


xlvill  PREFACE. 

work  of  the  author  of  such  things  with  the  work  of  the 
authors  of  such  verse  as 

"  In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  "  — 
or  as 

"  Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine"  — 

is  ridiculous.  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  with  their 
secret  of  consummate  felicity  in  diction  and  movement, 
are  of  another  and  an  altogether  higher  order  from 
Byron,  nay,  for  that  matter,  from  Wordsworth  also; 
from  the  author  of  such  verse  as 

"  Sol  hath  dropt  into  his  harbor  "  — 
or  (if  Mr.  Ruskin  pleases)  as 

"  Parching  summer  hath  no  warrant  "  — 

as  from  the  author  of 

"  All  shall  be  void  — 
Destroy'd ! " 

With  a  poetical  gift  and  a  poetical  performance  of  the 
very  highest  order,  the  slovenliness  and  tunelessness  of 
much  of  Byron's  production,  the  pompousness  and  pon- 
derousness  of  much  of  Wordsworth's,  are  incompatible. 
Let  us  admit  this  to  the  full. 

Moreover,  while  we  are  hearkening  to  M.  Scherer,  and 
going  along  with  him  in  his  fault-finding,  let  us  admit, 
too,  that  the  man  in  Byron  is  in  many  respects  as  unsat- 
isfactory as  the  poet.  And,  putting  aside  all  direct 
moral  criticism  of  him, — with  which  we  need  not  con- 
cern ourselves  here, — we  shall  find  that  he  is  unsatis- 
factory in  the  same  way.  Some  of  Byron's  most  crying 


PREFACE.  xlix 

faults  as  a  man  —  his  vulgarity,  his  affectation  —  are 
really  akin  to  the  faults  of  commonness,  of  want  of  art, 
in  his  workmanship  as  a  poet.  The  ideal  nature  for  the 
poet  and  artist  is  that  of  the  finely  touched  and  finely 
gifted  man,  the  ftxpufo  of  the  Greeks;  now,  Byron's 
nature  was  in  substance  not  that  of  the  (1><pvfc  at  all,  but 
rather,  as  I  have  said,  of  the  barbarian.  The  want  of 
fine  perception  which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  formu- 
late either  the  comparison  between  himself  and  Rous- 
seau, or  his  reason  for  getting  Lord  Delawarr  excused 
from  a  "  licking  "  at  Harrow,  is  exactly  what  made  pos- 
sible for  him,  also,  his  terrible  dealings  in,  An  ye  wool ; 
I  have  redde  thee  ;  Sunburn  me;  Oons,  and  it  is  excel- 
lent well.  It  is  exactly,  again,  what  made  possible  for 
him  his  precious  dictum  that  Pope  is  a  Greek  temple, 
and  a  string  of  other  criticisms  of  the  like  force;  it  is 
exactly,  in  fine,  what  deteriorated  the  quality  of  his 
poetic  production.  If  we  think  of  a  good  representative 
of  that  finely  touched  and  exquisitely  gifted  nature  which 
is  the  ideal  nature  for  the  poet  and  artist,  —  if  we  think 
of  Raphael,  for  instance,  who  truly  is  ityvrjs  just  as 
Byron  is  not,  —  we  shall  bring  into  clearer  light  the  con- 
nection in  Byron  between  the  faults  of  the  man  and  the 
faults  of  the  poet.  With  Raphael's  character  Byron's 
sins  of  vulgarity  and  false  criticism  would  have  been  im- 
possible, just  as  with  Raphael's  art  Byron's  sins  of  com- 
mon and  bad  workmanship. 

Yes,  all  this  is  true,  but  it  is  not  the  whole  truth  about 
Byron  nevertheless;  very  far  from  it.  The  severe  criti- 
cism of  M.  Scherer  by  no  means  gives  us  the  whole  truth 
about  Byron,  and  we  have  not  yet  got  it  in  what  has 


1  PREFACE. 

been  added  to  that  criticism  here.  The  negative  part  of 
the  true  criticism  of  him  we  perhaps  have;  the  positive 
part,  by  far  the  more  important,  we  have  not.  Byron's 
admirers  appeal  eagerly  to  foreign  testimonies  in  his 
favor.  Some  of  these  testimonies  do  not  much  move 
me;  but  one  testimony  there  is  among  them  which  will 
always  carry,  with  me  at  any  rate,  very  great  weight,  — 
the  testimony  of  Goethe.  Goethe's  sayings  about  Byron 
were  uttered,  it  must  however  be  remembered,  at  the 
height  of  Byron's  vogue,  when  that  puissant  and  splen- 
did personality  was  exercising  its  full  power  of  attraction. 
In  Goethe's  own  household  there  was  an  atmosphere  of 
glowing  Byron-worship;  his  daughter-in-law  was  a  pas- 
sionate admirer  of  Byron,  nay,  she  enjoyed  and  prized 
his  poetry,  as  did  Tieck  and  so  many  others  in  Germany 
at  that  time,  much  above  the  poetry  of  Goethe  himself. 
Instead  of  being  irritated  and  rendered  jealous  by  this,  a 
nature  like  Goethe's  was  inevitably  led  by  it  to  heighten, 
not  lower,  the  note  of  his  praise.  The  Time-Spirit,  or 
Zeit-  Geist,  he  would  himself  have  said,  was  working  just 
then  for  Byron.  This  working  of  the  Zeit-Geist  in  his 
favor  was  an  advantage  added  to  Byron's  other  advan- 
tages, an  advantage  of  which  he  had  a  right  to  get  the 
benefit.  This  is  what  Goethe  would  have  thought  and 
said  to  himself;  and  so  he  would  have  been  led  even  to 
heighten  somewhat  his  estimate  of  Byron,  and  to  accent- 
uate the  emphasis  of  praise.  Goethe  speaking  of  Byron 
at  that  moment  was  not  and  could  not  be  quite  the  same 
cool  critic  as  Goethe  speaking  of  Dante,  or  Moliere,  or 
Milton.  This,  I  say,  we  ought  to  remember  in  reading 
Goethe's  judgments  on  Byron  and  his  poetry.  Still,  if 


PREFACE. 

we  are  careful  to  bear  this  in  mind,  and  if  we  quote 
Goethe's  praise  correctly,  —  which  is  not  always  done 
by  those  who  in  this  country  quote  it,  —  and  if  we  add 
to  it  that  great  and  due  qualification  added  to  it  by 
Goethe  himself,  —  which  so  far  as  I  have  seen  has  never 
yet  been  done  by  his  quoters  in  this  country  at  all,  — 
then  we  shall  have  a  judgment  on  Byron,  which  comes, 
I  think,  very  near  to  the  truth,  and  which  may  well 
command  our  adherence. 

In  his  judicious  and  interesting  Life  of  Byron,  Profes- 
sor Nichol  quotes  Goethe  as  saying  that  Byron  "  is  un- 
doubtedly to  be  regarded  as  the  greatest  genius  of  our 
century."  What  Goethe  did  really  say  was  "the  great- 
est talent,"  not  "the  greatest  genius."  The  difference 
is  important,  because,  while  talent  gives  the  notion  of 
power  in  a  man's  performance,  genius  gives  rather  the 
notion  of  felicity  and  perfection  in  it;  and  this  divine 
gift  of  consummate  felicity  by  no  means,  as  we  have 
seen,  belongs  to  Byion  and  to  his  poetry.  Goethe  said 
that  Byron  "must  unquestionably  be  regarded  as  the 
greatest  talent  of  the  century."  *  He  said  of  him  more- 
over: "The  English  may  think  of  Byron  what  they 
please,  but  it  is  certain  that  they  can  point  to  no  poet 
who  is  his  like.  He  is  different  from  all  the  rest,  and, 
in  the  main,  greater."  Here,  again,  Professor  Nichol 
translates:  "  They  can  show  no  (living)  poet  who  is  to 
be  compared  to  him;" — inserting  the  word  living,  I 
suppose,  to  prevent  its  being  thought  that  Goethe  would 
have  anked  Byron,  as  a  poet,  above  Shakspeare  and 

1  "  Der  ohne  Frage  als  das  grosste  Talent  des  Jahrhunderts 
anzusehen  ist." 


Hi  PREFACE. 

Milton.  But  Goethe  did  not  use,  or,  I  think,  mean  to 
imply,  any  limitation  such  as  is  added  by  Professor 
Nichol.  Goethe  said  simply,  and  he  meant  to  say,  "  no 
poet."  Only  the  words  which  follow1  ought  not,  I 
think,  to  be  rendered,  "  who  is  to  be  compared  to  him," 
that  is  to  say,  "  who  is  his  equal  as  a  poet."  They  mean 
rather,  "  who  may  properly  be  compared  with  him," 
"who  is  his  parallel."  And  when  Goethe  said  that 
Byron  was  "  in  the  main  greater  "  than  all  the  rest  of 
the  English  poets,  he  was  not  so  much  thinking  of  the 
strict  rank,  as  poetry,  of  Byron's  production;  he  was 
thinking  of  that  wonderful  personality  of  Byron  which 
so  enters  into  his  poetry  and  which  Goethe  called  "  a 
personality  such,  for  its  eminence,  as  has  never  been 
yet,  and  such  as  is  not  likely  to  come  again."  He  was 
thinking  of  that  "daring,  dash,  and  grandiosity,"2  of 
Byron,  which  are  indeed  so  splendid;  and  which  were, 
so  Goethe  maintained,  of  a  character  to  do  good,  be- 
cause "  everything  great  is  formative,"  and  what  is  thus 
formative  does  us  good. 

The  faults  which  went  with  this  greatness,  and  which 
impaired  Byron's  poetical  work,  Goethe  saw  very  well. 
He  saw  the  constant  state  of  warfare  and  combat,  the 
"  negative  and  polemical  working,"  which  makes  Byron's 
poetry  a  poetry  in  which  we  can  find  so  little  rest  ;  he 
saw  the  Hang  zum  Unbegrenzten,  the  straining  after  the 
unlimited,  which  m?.de  it  impossible  for  Byron  to  produce 
poetic  wholes  such  as  the  Tempest  or  Lear ;  he  saw  the 

1  "  Der  ihm  zu  vergleichen  ware." 

8  "  Byron's  Kiihnheit,  Keckheit  und  Grandiositat,  1st  das  nicht 
alles bildend ?  —  Alles  Grosse  bildet,  sobald  wires  gewahrwerden." 


PREFACE. 

zu  viel  Empirie,  the  promiscuous  adoption  of  all  the 
matter  offered  to  the  poet  by  life,  just  as  it  was  offered, 
without  thought  or  patience  for  the  mysterious  transmu- 
tation to  be  operated  on  this  matter  by  poetic  form.  But 
in  a  sentence  which  I  cannot,  as  I  say,  remember  to  have 
yet  seen  quoted  in  any  English  criticism  of  Byron,  Goethe 
lays  his  finger  on  the  cause  of  all  these  defects  in  Byron, 
and  on  his  real  source  of  weakness  both  as  a  man  and 
as  a  poet.  "The  moment  he  reflects,  he  is  a  child," 
says  Goethe  ;  —  "  sobald  er  reflectirt  ist  er  ein  Kind." 

Now  if  we  take  the  two  parts  of  Goethe's  criticism  of 
Byron,  the  favorable  and  the  unfavorable,  and  put 
them  together,  we  shall  have,  I  think,  the  truth.  On 
the  one  hand  a  splendid  and  puissant  personality,  a  per- 
sonality "in  eminence  such  as  has  never  been  yet,  and 
is  not  likely  to  come  again  ;"  of  which  the  like,  there- 
fore, is  not  to  be  found  among  the  poets  of  our  nation, 
by  which  Byron  "  is  different  from  all  the  rest,  and,  in 
the  main,  greater."  Byron  is,  moreover,  "the  greatest 
talent  of  our  century."  On  the  other  hand,  this  splendid 
personality  and  unmatched  talent,  this  unique  Byron,  "  is 
quite  too  much  in  the  dark  about  himself ;"  J  nay,  "  the 
moment  he  begins  to  reflect,  he  is  a  child."  There  we 
have,  I  think,  Byron  complete  ;  and  in  estimating  him 
and  ranking  him  we  have  to  strike  a  balance  between 
the  gain  which  accrues  to  his  poetry,  as  compared  with 
the  productions  of  other  poets,  from  his  superiority,  and 
the  loss  which  accrues  to  it  from  his  defects. 

A  balance  of  this  kind  has  to  be  struck  in  the  case  of 
all  poets  except  the  few  supreme  masters  in  whom  a 
1  "  Gar  zu  dunkel  iiber  sich  selbst." 


liv  PREFACE. 

profound  criticism  of  life  exhibits  itself  in  indissoluble 
connection  with  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  beauty.  I 
have  seen  it  said  that  I  allege  poetry  to  have  for  its 
characteristic  this  :  that  i*.  is  a  criticism  of  life  ;  and  that 
I  make  it  to  be  thereby  distinguished  from  prose,  which 
is  something  else.  So  far  from  it,  that  when  I  first  used 
this  expression,  a  criticism  of  life,  now  many  years  ago, 
it  was  to  literature  in  general  that  I  applied  it,  and  not 
to  poetry  in  especial.  "The  end  and  aim  of  all  litera- 
ture," I  said,  "  is,  if  one  considers  it  attentively,  nothing 
but  that  :  —  a  criticism  of  life."  And  so  it  surely  is  ;  the 
main  end  and  aim  of  all  our  utterance,  whether  in  prose 
or  in  verse,  is  surely  a  criticism  of  life.  We  are  not 
brought  much  on  our  way,  I  admit,  towards  an  adequate 
definition  of  poetry  as  distinguished  from  prose  by  that 
truth  ;  still  a  truth  it  is,  and  poetry  can  never  prosper  if 
it  is  forgotten.  In  poetry,  however,  the  criticism  of  life 
has  to  be  made  conformably  to  the  laws  of  poetic  truth 
and  poetic  beauty.  Truth  and  seriousness  of  substance 
and  matter,  felicity  and  perfection  of  diction  and  manner, 
as  these  are  exhibited  in  the  best  poets,  are  what  consti- 
tute a  criticism  of  life  made  in  conformity  with  the  laws 
of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty  ;  and  it  is  by  knowing 
and  feeling  the  work  of  those  poets,  that  we  learn  to  recog- 
nize the  fulfilment  and  non-fulfilment  of  such  conditions. 
The  moment,  however,  that  we  leave  the  small  band 
of  the  very  best  poets,  the  true  classics,  and  deal  with 
poets  of  the  next  rank,  we  shall  find  that  perfect  truth 
and  seriousness  of  matter,  in  close  alliance  with  perfect 
truth  and  felicity  of  manner,  is  the  rule  no  longer.  We 
have  now  to  take  what  we  can  get,  to  forego  something 


PREFACE.  Iv 

here,  to  admit  compensation  for  it  there  ;  to  strike  a 
balance,  and  to  see  how  our  poets  stand  in  respect  to 
one  another  when  that  balance  has  been  struck.  Let  us 
observe  how  this  is  so. 

We  will  take  three  poets,  among  the  most  consider- 
erable  of  our  century  :  Leopardi,  Byron,  Wordsworth. 
Giacomo  Leopardi  was  ten  years  younger  than  Byron, 
and  he  died  thirteen  years  after  nim  ;  both  of  them, 
therefore,  died  young,  Byron  at  the  age  of  thirty-six, 
Leopardi  at  the  age  of  thirty-nine.  Both  of  them  were 
of  noble  birth,  both  of  them  suffered  from  physical  de- 
fect, both  of  them  were  in  revolt  against  the  established 
facts  and  beliefs  of  their  age  ;  but  here  the  likeness 
between  them  ends.  The  stricken  poet  of  Recanati  had 
no  country,  for  an  Italy  in  his  day  did  not  exist  ;  he  had 
no  audience,  no  celebrity.  The  volume  of  his  poems, 
published  in  the  very  year  of  Byron's  death,  hardly  sold, 
I  suppose,  its  tens,  while  the  volumes  of  Byron's  poetry 
were  selling  their  tens  of  thousands.  And  yet  Leopardi 
has  the  very  qualities  which  we  have  found  wanting  to 
Byron  ;  he  has  the  sense  for  form  and  style,  the  passion 
for  just  expression,  the  sure  and  firm  touch  of  the  true 
artist.  Nay,  more,  he  has  a  grave  fulness  of  knowledge, 
an  insight  into  the  real  bearings  of  the  questions  which 
as  a  sceptical  poet  he  raises,  a  power  of  seizing  the  real 
point,  a  lucidity,  with  which  the  author  of  Cain  has 
nothing  to  compare.  I  can  hardly  imagine  Leopardi 
reading  the 

"...  And  thou  would'st  go  on  aspiring 

To  the  great  double  Mysteries  !  the  two  Principles  !  " 

or  following  Byron  in  his  theological  controversy  with 


Ivi  PREFACE. 

Dr.  Kennedy,  without  having  his  features  overspread  by 
a  calm  and  fine  smile,  and  remarking  of  his  brilliant 
contemporary,  as  Goethe  did,  that  "the  moment  he 
begins  to  reflect,  he  is  a  child."  But  indeed  whoever 
wishes  to  feel  the  full  superiority  of  Leopardi  over  Byron 
in  philosophic  thought  and  in  the  expression  of  it,  has 
only  to  read  one  paragraph  of  one  poem,  the  paragraph 
of  La  Ginestra,  beginning 

"  Sovente  in  queste  piagge," 
and  ending 

"  Non  so  se  il  riso  o  la  pieti  prevale." 

In  like  manner,  Leopardi  is  at  many  points  the  poetic 
superior  of  Wordsworth  too.  He  has  a  far  wider  culture 
than  Wordsworth,  more  mental  lucidity,  more  freedom 
from  illusions  as  to  the  real  character  of  the  established 
fact  and  of  reigning  conventions  ;  above  all,  this  Italian, 
with  his  pure  and  sure  touch,  with  his  fineness  of  per- 
ception, is  far  more  of  the  artist.  Such  a  piece  of  pomp- 
ous dulness  as 

"  O  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time," 

and  all  the  rest  of  it,  or  such  lumbering  verse  as  Mr. 
Ruskin's  enemy, 

"  Parching  summer  hath  no  warrant," 

would  have  been  as  impossible  to  Leopardi  as  to  Dante. 
Where,  then,  is  Wordsworth's  superiority?  for  the  worth 
of  what  he  has  given  us  in  poetry' I  hold  to  be  greater, 
on  the  whole,  than  the  worth  of  what  Leopardi  hay 


PREFACE.  Ivii 

given  us.  It  is  in  Wordsworth's  sound  and  profound 
sense 

"  Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread ; " 

whereas  Leopardi  remains  with  his  thoughts  ever  fixed 
upon  the  essenza  insanabile,  upon  the  acerbo,  indegno 
mistero  delle  cose.  It  is  in  the  power  with  which  Words- 
worth feels  the  resources  of  joy  offered  to  us  in  nature, 
offered  to  us  in  the  primary  human  affections  and  duties, 
and  in  the  power  with  which  in  his  moments  of  inspi- 
ration he  renders  this  joy  and  makes  us,  too,  feel  it;  a 
force  greater  than  himself  seeming  to  lift  him  and  to 
prompt  his  tongue,  so  that  he  speaks  in  a  style  far  above 
any  style  of  which  he  has  the  constant  command,  and 
with  a  truth  far  beyond  any  philosophic  truth  of  which 
he  has  the  conscious  and  assured  possession.  Neither 
Leopardi  nor  Wordsworth  is  of  the  same  order  with  the 
great  poets  who  made  such  verse  as 

"  TAT)TOI>  yap  Moipai  6vfibv  6e<rav  ai>9p<aifOi<Tiv." 

or  as 

"  In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace ;  " 
or  as 

"...  Men  must  endure 

Their  going  hence,  even  as  their  coming  hither ; 
Ripeness  is  all." 

But  as  compared  with  Leopardi,  Wordsworth,  though  at 
many  points  less  lucid,  though  far  less  a  master  of  style, 
far  less  of  an  artist,  gains  so  much  by  his  criticism  of  life, 
being,  in  certain  matters  of  profound  importance,  health- 


Iviii  .  PREFACE. 

ful  and  true,  whereas  Leopardi's  pessimism  is  not,  that 
the  value  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  on  the  whole,  stands 
higher  for  us  than  that  of  Leopardi's,  as  it  stands  higher 
for  us,  I  think,  than  that  of  any  modern  poetry  except 
Goethe's. 

Byron's  poetic  value  is  also  greater,  on  the  whole,  than 
Loepardi's;  and  his  superiority  turns,  in  the  same  way, 
upon  the  surpassing  worth  of  something  which  he  had 
and  was,  after  all  deduction  has  been  made  for  his  short- 
comings. We  talk  of  Byron's  personality,  "a  person- 
ality in  eminence  such  as  has  never  been  yet,  and  is  not 
likely  to  come  again;  "  and  we  say  that  by  this  person- 
ality Byron  is  "  different  from  all  the  rest  of  English 
poets,  and,  in  the  main,  greater."  But  can  we  not  be  a 
litf'e  more  circumstantial,  and  name  that  in  which  the 
wonderful  power  of  this  personality  consisted?  We  can; 
with  the  instinct  of  a  poet  Mr.  Swinburne  has  seized 
upon  it  and  named  it  for  us.  The  nower  of  Byron's 
personality  lies  in  "the  splendid  and  .mpenshabie  ex- 
c  "er'ie  which  covers  all  his  offences  pnd  outweighs  all 
his  defects:  the  excellence  oj  sincerity  and  strength." 

Byron  found  our  na  ion,  after  its  long  and  victorious 
struggle  with  revolutionary  France,  fixed  in  a  system  of 
established  facts  and  dominant  ideas  which  revolted  him. 
The  mental  bondage  of  the  most  powerful  part  of  our 
nation,  of  its  strong  middle  class,  to  a  narrow  and  false 
system  of  this  kind,  is  what  we  call  British  Philistinism. 
That  bondage  is  unbroken  to  this  hour,  but  in  Byron's 
time  it  was  even  far  more  deep  and  dark  than  it  is  now. 
Byron  was  an  aristocrat,  and  it  is  not  difficult  for  an 
aristocrat  to  look  on  the  prejudices  and  habits  of  the 


PREFACE.  x 

British  Philistine  with  scepticism  and  disdain.  Plenty 
of  young  men  of  his  own  class  Byron  met  at  Almack's 
or  at  Lady  Jersey's,  who  regarded  the  established  facts 
and  reigning  beliefs  of  the  England  of  that  day  with  as 
little  reverence  as  he  did.  But  these  men,  disbelievers 
in  British  Philistinism  in  private,  entered  English  public 
life,  the  most  conventional  in  the  world,  and  at  once 
they  saluted  with  respect  the  habits  and  ideas  of  British 
Philistinism  as  if  they  were  a  part  of  the  order  of  creation, 
and  as  if  In  public  no  sane  man  would  think  of  warring 
against  them.  With  Byron  it  was  different.  What  he 
called  the  cant  of  the  great  middle  part  of  the  English 
nation,  what  we  call  its  Philistinism,  revolted  him;  but 
the  cant  of  his  own  class,  deferring  to  this  Philistinism 
and  profiting  by  it,  while  they  disbelieved  in  it,  revolted 
him  even  more.  "Come  what  may,"  are  his  own  words, 
"  I  will  never  flatter  the  million's  canting  in  any  shape." 
His  class  in  general,  on  the  other  hand,  shrugged  their 
shoulders  at  this  cant,  laughed  at  it,  pandered  to  it,  and 
ruled  by  it.  The  falsehood,  cynicism,  insolence,  mis- 
government,  oppression,  with  their  consequent  unfailing 
crop  of  human  misery,  which  were  produced  by  this 
state  of  things,  roused  Byron  to  irreconcilable  revolt  and 
battle.  They  made  him  indignant,  they  infuriated  him; 
they  were  so  strong,  so  defiant,  so  maleficent,  — and  yet 
he  felt  that  they  were  doomed.  "You  have  seen  every 
tramplerdown  in  turn,"  he  comforts  himself  with  saying, 
"  from  Buonaparte  to  the  simplest  individuals."  The 
old  order,  as  after  1815  it  stood  victorious,  with  its  igno- 
rance and  misery  below,  its  cant,  selfishness,  and  cynicism 
above,  was  at  home  and  abroad  equally  hateful  to  him. 


Ix  PREFACE. 

"  I  have  simplified  my  politics,"  he  writes,  "  into  an  utter 
detestation  of  all  existing  governments."  And  again: 
"Give  me  a  republic.  The  king-times  are  fast  finishing; 
there  will  be  blood  shed  like  water  and  tears  like  mist, 
but  the  peoples  will  conquer  in  the  end.  I  shall  not 
live  to  see  it,  but  I  foresee  it." 

Byron  himself  gave  the  preference,  he  tells  us,  to  poli- 
ticians and  doers,  far  above  writers  and  singers.  But 
the  politics  of  his  own  day  and  of  his  own  class  —  even 
of  the  Liberals  of  his  own  class  —  were  impossible  for 
him.  Nature  had  not  formed  him  for  a  Liberal  peer, 
proper  to  move  the  Address  in  the  House  of  Lords,  to 
pay  compliments  to  the  energy  and  self-reliance  of  British 
middle-class  Liberalism,  and  to  adapt  his  politics  to  suit 
it.  Unfitted  for  such  politics,  he  threw  himself  upon 
poetry  as  his  organ;  and  in  poetry  his  topics  were  not 
Queen  Mab,  and  the  Witch  of  Atlas,  and  the  Sensitive 
Plant,  they  were  the  upholders  of  the  old  Order,  George 
the  Third  and  Lord  Castlereagh  and  the  Duke  of  Well- 
ington and  Southey,  and  they  were  the  canters  and 
tramplers  of  the  great  world,  and  they  were  his  enemies 
and  himself. 

Such  was  Byron's  personality,  by  which  "  he  is 
different  from  all  the  rest  of  English  poets,  and,  in  the 
main,  greater."  But  he  posed  all  his  life,  says  M. 
Scherer.  Let  us  distinguish.  There  is  the  Byron  who 
posed,  there  is  the  Byron  with  his  affectations  and  silli- 
ness, the  Byron  whose  weakness  Lady  Blessington,  with 
a  woman's  acuteness,  so  admirably  seized:  "his  great 
defect  is  flippancy  and  a  total  want  of  self-possession." 
But  when  this  theatrical  and  easily  criticised  personage 


PREFACE.  *1 

betook  himself  to  poetry,  and  when  he  had  fairly  warmed 
to  his  work,  then  he  became  another  man;  then  the 
theatrical  personage  passed  away;  then  a  higher  power 
took  possession  of  him  and  filled  him;  then  at  last  came 
forth  into  light  that  true  and  puissant  personality,  with 
its  direct  strokes,  its  ever-welling  force,  its  satire,  its 
energy,  and  its  agony.  This  is  the  real  Byron;  whoever 
stops  at  the  theatrical  preludings,  does  not  know  him. 
And  this  real  Byron  may  well  be  superior  to  the  stricken 
Leopardi,  he  may  well  be  declared  "  different  from  all 
the  rest  of  English  poets,  and,  in  the  main,  greater,"  in 
so  far  as  it  is  true  of  him,  as  M.  Taine  well  says,  tha* 
"all  other  souls,  in  comparison  with  his,  seem  inert; 
in  so  far  as  it  is  true  of  him  that  with  superb,  exhaustless 
energy  he  maintained,  as  Professor  Nichol  well  says, 
"the  struggle  that  keeps  alive,  if  it  does  not  save,  the 
soul:"  in  so  far,  finally,  as  he  deserves  (and  he  does 
deserve)  the  noble  praise  of  him  which  I  have  already 
quoted  from  Mr.  Swinburne;  the  praise  for  "  the  splen- 
did and  imperishable  excellence  which  covers  all  his 
offences  and  outweighs  all  his  defects :  the  excellence  o/ 
sincerity  and  strength." 

True,  as  a  man,  Byron  could  not  manage  himself, 
could  not  guide  his  ways  aright,  but  was  all  astray. 
True,  he  has  no  light,  cannot  lead  us  from  the  past  to 
the  future;  "the  moment  he  reflects,  he  is  a  child." 
The  way  out  of  the  false  state  of  things  which  enraged 
him  he  did  not  see, — the  slow  and  laborious  way  up- 
ward; he  had  not  the  patience,  knowledge,  self-disci- 
pline, virtue,  requisite  for  seeing  it.  True,  also,  as  a 
poet,  he  has  no  fine  and  exact  sense  for  word  and 


Ixii  PREFACE. 

structure  and  rhythm;  he  has  not  the  artist's  nature 
and  gifts.  Yet  a  personality  of  Byron's  force  counts  for 
so  much  in  life,  and  a  rhetorician  of  Byron's  force  counts 
for  so  much  in  literature.  But  it  would  be  most  unjust 
to  label  Byron,  as  M.  Scherer  is  disposed  to  label  him, 
as  a  rhetorician  only.  Along  with  his  astounding  power 
and  passion,  he  had  a  strong  and  deep  sense  for  what 
is  beautiful  in  nature,  and  for  what  is  beautiful  in  human 
action  and  suffering.  When  he  warms  to  his  work, 
when  he  is  inspired,  Nature  herself  seems  to  take  the 
pen  from  him  as  she  took  it  from  Wordsworth,  and  to 
Trite  for  him  as  she  wrote  for  Wordsworth,  though  in  a 
different  fashion,  with  her  own  penetrating  simplicity. 
Goethe  has  well  .observed  of  Byron,  that  when  he  is  at 
his  happiest  his  representation  of  things  is  as  easy  and 
real  as  if  he  were  improvising.  It  is  so;  and  his  verse 
then  exhibits  quite  another  and  a  higher  quality  from 
the  rhetorical  quality,  —  admirable  as  this  also  in  its  own 
kind  of  merit  is,  —  of  such  verse  as 

"  Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress," 

and  of  so  much  more  verse  of  Byron's  of  that  stamp. 
Nature,  I  say,  takes  the  pen  for  him;  and  then,  assured 
master  of  a  true  poetic  style  though  he  is  not,  any  more 
than  Wordsworth,  yet  as  from  Wordsworth  at  his  best 
there  will  come  such  verse  as 

"  Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  " 

so  from  Byron,  too,  at  his  best,  there  will  come  such 
verse  as 

"  He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not ;  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away." 


PREFACE.  Ixiii 

Of  verse  of  this  high  quality,  Byron  has  much;  of 
verse  of  a  quality  lower  than  this,  of  a  quality  rather 
rhetorical  than  truly  poetic,  yet  still  of  extraordinary 
power  and  merit,  he  has  still  more.  To  separate,  from 
the  mass  of  poetry  which  Byron  poured  forth,  all  this 
higher  portion,  so  superior  to  the  mass,  and  still  so  con- 
siderable in  quantity,  and  to  present  it  in  one  body  by 
itself,  is  to  do  a  service,  I  believe,  to  Byron's  reputa- 
tion, and  to  the  poetic  glory  of  our  country. 

Such  a  service  I  have  in  the  present  volume  attempted 
to  perform.  To  Byron,  after  all  the  tributes  which  have 
been  paid  to  him,  here  is  yet  one  tribute  more :  — 

"  Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine !  " 

not  a  tribute  of  boundless  homage  certainly,  but  sincere; 
a  tribute  which  consists  not  in  covering  the  poet  with 
eloquent  eulogy  of  our  own,  but  in  letting  him,  at  his 
best  and  greatest,  speak  for  himself.  Surely  the  critic 
who  does  most  for  his  author  is  the  critic  who  gains 
readers  for  his  author  himself,  not  for  any  lucubrations 
on  his  author;  —  gains  more  readers  for  him,  and  enables 
those  readers  to  read  him  with  more  admiration. 

And  in  spite  of  his  prodigious  vogue,  Byron  has  never 
yet,  perhaps,  had  the  serious  admiration  which  he  de- 
serves. Society  read  him  and  talked  about  him,  as  it 
reads  and  talks  about  Endymion  to-day;  and  with  the 
same  sort  of  result.  It  looked  in  Byron's  glass  as  it 
looks  in  Lord  Beaconsfield's,  and  sees,  or  fancies  that  it 
sees,  its  own  face  there;  and  then  it  goes  its  way,  and 
straightway  forgets  what  manner  of  man  it  saw.  Even 
of  his  passionate  admirers,  how  many  never  got  beyond 


Ixiv  PREFACE. 

the  theatrical  Byron,  from  whom  they  caught  the  fashion 
of  deranging  their  hair,  or  of  knotting  their  neck-hand- 
kerchief, or  of  leaving  their  shirt-collar  unbuttoned; 
how  few  profoundly  felt  his  vital  influence,  the  influence 
of  his  splendid  and  imperishable  excellence  of  sincerity 
and  strength ! 

His  own  aristocratic  class,  whose  cynical  make-believe 
drove  him  to  fury;  the  great  middle-class,  on  whose 
impregnable  Philistinism  he  shattered  himself  to  pieces, 
—  how  little  have  either  of  these  felt  Byron's  vital  influ- 
ence !  As  the  inevitable  break-up  of  the  old  order 
comes,  as  the  English  middle-class  slowly  awakens  from 
its  intellectual  sleep  of  two  centuries,  as  our  actual 
present  world,  to  which  this  sleep  has  condemned  us, 
shows  itself  more  clearly,  —  our  world  of  an  aristocracy 
materialized  and  null,  a  middle-class  purblind  and  hid- 
eous, a  lower  class  crude  and  brutal,  —  we  shall  turn 
our  eyes  again,  and  to  more  purpose,  upon  this  passionate 
and  dauntless  soldier  of  a  forlorn  hope,  who,  ignorant 
of  the  future  and  unconsoled  by  its  promises,  neverthe- 
less waged  against  the  conservation  of  the  old  impossible 
world  so  fiery  battle;  waged  it  till  he  fell,  —  waged  it 
with  such  splendid  and  imperishable  excellence  of  sin- 
cerity and  strength. 

Wordsworth's  value  is  of  another  kind.  Wordsworth 
has  an  insight  into  permanent  sources  of  joy  and  conso- 
lation for  mankind  which  Byron  has  not;  his  poetry  gives 
us  more  which  we  may  rest  upon  than  Byron's  —  more 
which  we  can  rest  upon  now,  and  which  men  may  rest 
upon  always.  I  place  Wordsworth's  poetry,  therefore, 
above  Byron's  on  the  whole,  although  in  some  points  he 


PREFACE.  Ixv 

was  greatly  Byron's  inferior,  and  although  Byron's  poetry 
will  always,  probably,  find  more  readers  than  Words- 
worth's, and  will  give  pleasure  more  easily.  But  these 
two,  Wordsworth  and  Byron,  stand,  it  seems  to  me,  first 
and  pre-eminent  in  actual  performance,  a  glorious  pair, 
among  the  English  poets  of  this  century.  Keats  bad 
probably,  indeed,  a  more  consummate  poetic  gift  nan 
either  of  them;  but  he  died  having  produced  too  i  ttle 
and  being  as  yet  too  immature  to  rival  them.  I  for  <ny 
part  can  never  even  think  of  equalling  with  them  *ny 
other  of  their  contemporaries;  — either  Coleridge,  poet 
and  philosopher  wrecked  in  a  mist  of  opium;  or  Sheliey, 
beautiful  and  ineffectual  angel,  beating  in  the  void  his 
luminous  wings  in  vain.  Wordsworth  and  Byron  siand 
out  by  themselves.  When  the  year  1900  is  turned,  md 
our  nation  comes  to  recount  her  poetic  glories  in  i'he 
century  which  has  then  just  ended,  the  first  nam~s  .vith 
her  will  be  these. 

MATTHF.VV  ARNOLD. 


CONTENTS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKKTCH iii 

CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  BYRON'S  POEMS    .       xxvii 
PREFACE xxix 

I. —  PERSONAL,   LYRIC,    AND   ELEGIAC. 

LOCH  NA  GARR 3 

WELL!  THOU  ART  HAPPY 4 

EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND r  .    .    .  6 

To  THOMAS  MOORE 8 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  DEPARTURE 9 

STANZAS  COMPOSED  DURING  A  THUNDERSTORM.  u 

"  MAID  OF  ATHENS  " 14 

To  INEZ 15 

"ONE  STRUGGLE  MORE" 16 

EUTHANASIA ig 

AND  THOU  ART  DEAD 20 

WHEN  WE  Two  PARTED 23 

STANZAS  FOR  Music 24 

STANZAS  FOR  AUUUSTA 26 

SOLITUDE 27 

NATURE  THE  CONSOLER 28 

THE  SAME 29 

THE  POET  AND  THE  WORLD 31 

Ixvii 


Ixviii  CONTENTS. 


BEREAVEMENT 32 

LAST  LEAVING  ENGLAND '  .    .    .  32 

ENGLAND 33 

RUINS  TO  RUINS 34 

THE  DREAM 35 

THE  POET'S  CURSE 41 

NATURE  TO  THE  LAST 43 

"SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY" 46 

"OH!  SNATCH'D  AWAY" 47 

SONG  OF  SAUL 47 

VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR 48 

DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB 50 

ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE 51 

ODE  ON  WATERLOO 57 

NAPOLEON'S  FAREWELI 60 

LAMENT  OF  TASSO 61 

DANTE  IN  EXILE 63 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE 65 

LINES  TO  A  LADY  WEEPING 68 

DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCESS  CHARLOTTE  ....  69 

IMMORTALITY 71 

"ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY  THIRTY-SIXTH 

YEAR" 72 

LIFE 73 

II.  — DESCRIPTIVE    AND   NARRATIVE. 

GREECE 77 

THE  SAME 79 

THE  SAME    ..............  83 

THE  SAME 85 

HELLESPONT 87 


CONTENTS.  Ixix 

PAGE 

TROY 88 

THE  DRACHENFELS 89 

WATERLOO 90 

LAKE  OF  GENEVA. — CALM 94 

LAKE  OF  GENEVA.  —  STORM 95 

CLARENS 97 

ITALY 99 

VENICE 101 

VENICE  IN  DECAY 102 

THE  SAME 103 

AN  AUGUST  EVENING  IN  ITALY 104 

THE  AVE  MARIA 105 

ARQUA 107 

CLITUMNUS 108 

TERNI 109 

ROME no 

THE  COLISEUM in 

TOMB  OF  CECILIA  METELLA 113 

GROTTO  OF  EGERIA 115 

SONNET  ON  CHILLON 119 

BONNIVARD  AND  HlS  BROTHERS 1 19 

BONNIVARD  ALONE 123 

THE  EAST 129 

JOURNEY  AND  DEATH  OF  HASSAN 129 

HASSAN'S  MOTHER 134 

THE  GIAOUR'S  LOVE 135 

DEATH  OF  SELIM 136 

CORSAIR  LIFE 141 

PARTING  OF  CONRAD  AND  MEDORA      ....  142 

CONRAD'S  RETURN 144 

ALP  AND  FRANCESCA 146 


ixx  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  ASSAULT 155 

PARISINA 158 

THE  LAST  OF  EZZELIN  .........  159 

MAZEPPA'S  RIDE 161 

THE  STREAMLET  FROM  THE  CLIFF 175 

THE  SHIPWRECK 175 

HAID^E 177 

HAID^E  AGAIN 179 

AURORA  RABY 181 

III.—  DRAMATIC. 

MANFRED  AND  THE  SEVEN  SPIRITS      ....  185 

MANFRFD  ON  THE  CLIFFS 194 

THE  WITCH  OF  THE  ALPS 199 

ASTARTE 206 

MANFRED'S  FAREWELL  TO  THE  SUN    ....  212 

MANFRED'S  END 213 

DYING  SPEECH  OF  THE  DOGE  OF  VENICE      .     .  219 

DEATH  OF  SALEMENES 222 

DEATH  OF  JACOPO  FOSCARI 224 

CAIN  AND  LUCIFER  IN  THE  ABYSS  OF  SPACE     .  227 

CAIN  AND  ADAH 231 

IV.  — SATIRIC. 

FAME 241 

WRITTEN   AFTER   SWIMMING    FROM    SESTOS    TO 

ABYDOS 241 

ON  MY  THIRTY-THIRD  BIRTHDAY 242 

To  MR.  MURRAY 243 


CONTENTS.  Ixxi 

PAGE 

EPISTLE  FROM  MR.  MURRAY  TO  DR.  POLIDORI  .  243 

To  MR.  MURRAY 246 

HOLLAND  HOUSE 247 

EPILOGUE  TO  ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  RE- 
VIEWERS          .     .  248 

THE  LANDED  INTEREST      .     .' 249 

ITALY ,.     .     .     .  251 

ENGLAND 253 

WANTED  —  A  HEKO 254 

LONDON 256 

THINGS  SWEET 256 

LAMBRO'S  RETURN 258 

A  STORMED  CITY=- 262 

EXHORTATION  TO  MR.  WILBERFORCE  ....  264 

EXHORTATION  TO  MRS.  FRY 265 

SATAN    CLAIMS,    AT    HEAVEN'S    GATE,   GEORGE 

THE  THIRD 266 

THE  SEX 268 

OUR  CHILDREN 269 

SOUL 269 

MOBILITY 270 

GREAT  NAMES      .     .     .  , 271 

POETICAL  COMMANDMENTS 274 

BYRON  AND  His  CONTEMPORARIES  .   :.     .     .     .  275 

POETICAL  PRODUCTION 278 

THE  LIGHTER  SIDE 278 


1. 

PERSONAL,   LYRIC,   AND   ELEGIAC. 


POETRY   OF   BYRON. 


LOCH  NA   GARR. 

AWAY,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses ! 

In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove; 
Restore  me  the  rocks,  where  the  snow-flake  reposes, 

Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love : 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains, 

Round  their  white  summits  though  elements  war; 
Though  cataracts  foam  'stead  of  smooth-flowing  fouiv 
tains, 

I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Ah !  there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy  wander'd; 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid; 
On  chieftains  long  perish'd  my  memory  ponder'd, 

As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine-cover'd  glade: 
I  sought  not  my  home  till  the  day's  dying  glory 

Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star; 
For  fancy  was  cheer'd  by  traditional  story, 

Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

"  Shades  of  the  dead  !  have  I  not  heard  your  voices 
Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale?  " 

3 


4  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  rides  on  the  wind  o'er  his  own  Highland  vale. 
Round  Loch  na  Garr  while  the  stormy  mist  gathers, 

Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car: 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers; 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

"  Illstarr'd,  though  brave,  did  no  visions  foreboding 

Tell  you  that  fate  had  forsaken  your  cause?  " 
Ah !  were  you  destined  to  die  at  Culloden, 

Victory  crown'd  not  your  fall  with  applause: 
Still  were  you  happy  in  death's  earthy  slumber, 

You  rest  with  your  clan  in  the  caves  of  Braemar; 
The  pibroch  resounds,  to  the  piper's  loud  number, 

Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Years  have  roll'd  on,  Loch  na  Garr,  since  I  left  you, 

Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again : 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flow'rs  has  bereft  you, 

Yet  still  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's  plain. 
England !  thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic 

To  one  who  has  roved  on  the  mountains  afar : 
Oh  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic ! 

The  steep  frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr ! 


WELL  I    THOU  ART  HAPPY. 

WBLL  !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too; 

For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 


WELL!    THOU  ART  HAPPY. 

Thy  husband  's  blest  —  and  't  will  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot: 

But  let  them  pass  —  Oh  !  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not ! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child, 

I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break; 

But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it,  — and  repressed  my  sighs 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu  !   I  must  away : 

While  thou  art  blest  I  '11  not  repine; 
But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay; 

My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deem'd  that  pride 
Had  quench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame: 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 

My  heart  in  all,  — save  hope,  —  the  same. 

Yet  was  I  calm :   I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime  — 

We  met,  —  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 
Yet  met  with  no  confusion  there : 

One  only  feeling  could'st  thou  trace; 
The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 


POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Away  !  away  !  my  early  dream 
Remembrance  never  must  awake; 

Oh  !  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream ! 
My  foolish  heart  be  still,  or  break. 


EPISTLE    TO   A    FRIEND. 

IN    ANSWER    TO    SOME    LINES    EXHORTING    THE    AUTHOR 
TO   BE   CHEERFUL,    AND   TO    "  BANISH    CARE." 

"  OH  !  banish  care  "  —  such  ever  be 

The  motto  of  thy  revelry ! 

Perchance  of  mine,  when  wassail  nights 

Renew  those  riotous  delights, 

Wherewith  the  Children  of  Despair 

Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  "banish  care." 

But  not  in  morn's  reflecting  hour, 

When  present,  past,  and  future  lower, 

When  all  I  loved  is  changed  or  gone, 

Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one, 

Whose  every  thought  —  but  let  them  pass     • 

Thou  know'st  I  am  not  what  I  was. 

But,  above  all,  if  thou  would'st  hold 

Place  in  a  heart  that  ne'er  was  cold, 

By  all  the  powers  that  men  revere, 

By  all  unto  thy  bosom  dear, 

Thy  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above, 

Speak  —  speak  of  anything  but  love. 

'T  were  long  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear, 
The  tale  of  one  who  scorns  a  tear; 


EPISTLE    TO  A    FRIEND. 

And  there  is  little  in  that  tale 
Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail. 
But  mine  has  suffer'd  more  than  well 
'T  would  suit  philosophy  to  tell. 
I  've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride,  — 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side,  — 
Have  seen  the  infant,  which  she  bore, 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled, 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child;  — 
Have  seen  her  eyes  in  cold  disdain, 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain; 
And  /  have  acted  well  my  part 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Return'd  the  freezing  glance  she  gave, 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave;  — 
Have  kiss'd,  as  if  without  design, 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine. 
And  show'd,  alas !  in  each  caress, 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less. 

But  let  this  pass  —  I  '11  whine  no  more, 
Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore; 
The  world  befits  a  busy  brain,  — 
I  '11  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 
But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year, 
When  Britain's  "  May  is  in  the  sere," 
Thou  hear'st  of  one,  whose  deepening  crimes 
Suit  with  the  sablest  of  the  times, 
Of  one,  whom  love  nor  pity  sways, 
Nor  hope  of  fame,  nor  good  men's  praise, 


8  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

One,  who  in  stern  ambition's  pride, 
Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside, 
One  rank'd  in  some  recording  page 
With  the  worst  anarchs  of  the  age, 
Him  wilt  thou  know  —  and  knowing  pause, 
Nor  with  the  effect  forget  the  cause. 


TO    THOMAS  MOORE. 

MY  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here  's  a  double  health  to  thee ! 

Here  's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky  's  above  me, 
Here  's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on : 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 
As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'T  is  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be  —  peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  DEPARTURE.        9 

CHILDE   HAROLD'S  DEPARTURE. 

(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  i.  Stanzas  4-11.) 
CHILDE  HAROLD  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly; 
Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Guide  befell; 
He  felt  the  fulness  of  satiety: 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 
Which  seemed  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's  sad  cell, 

For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 
Had  sigh'd  to  many  though  he  loved  but  one, 
And  that  loved  one,  alas !  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she !  to  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss, 
And  spoil'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste, 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deign'd  to  taste. 

And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  heart, 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee; 
'T  is  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 
But  Pride  congeal'd  the  drop  within  his  ee: 
Apart  he  stalk'd  in  joyless  reverie, 
And  from  his  native  land  resolved  to  go, 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea; 
With  pleasure  drugg'd,  he  almost  long'd  for  woe, 
And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades  below 


io  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

The  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall: 
It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile; 
So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall, 
Yet  strength  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome  !  condemn'd  to  uses  vile  ! 
Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den 
Now  Paphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile; 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come  agen, 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 
Strange  pangs  would  flash  along  Childe  Harold's  brow, 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  below: 
But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to  know; 
For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow, 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  this  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could  not  control. 

And  none  did  love  him  —  though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gather'd  revellers  from  far  and  near, 
He  knew  them  flatt'rers  of  the  festal  hour; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Yea  !  none  did  love  him  — -  nor  his  lemans  dear  — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  feere; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare, 
And  Mammon  wins  his  ways  where  Seraphs  might  despair. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother  —  not  forgot, 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun; 


STANZAS.  II 

A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel : 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  't  is  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal. 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands, 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight, 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands, 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 
And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite; 
His  goblets  brimm'd  with  every  costly  wine, 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left,  to  cross  the  brine, 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's  central 
line. 


STANZAS 

COMPOSED    DURING    A   THUNDERSTORM. 

CHILL  and  mirk  is  the  nightly  blast, 
Where  Pindus'  mountains  rise, 

And  angry  clouds  are  pouring  fast 
The  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Our  guides  are  gone,  our  hope  is  lost, 

And  lightnings,  as  they  play, 
But  show  where  rocks  our  path  have  crost, 

Or  gild  the  torrent's  spray. 


12  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Is  yon  a  cot  I  saw,  though  low? 

When  lightning  broke  the  gloom  — 
How  welcome  were  its  shade  !  —  ah,  no ! 

'T  is  but  a  Turkish  tomb. 

Through  sounds  of  foaming  waterfalls, 

I  hear  a  voice  exclaim  — 
My  way-worn  countryman,  who  calls 

On  distant  England's  name. 

A  shot  is  fired  —  by  foe  or  friend? 

Another  —  't  is  to  tell 
The  mountain-peasants  to  descend, 

And  lead  us  where  they  dwell. 

Oh !  who  in  such  a  night  will  dare 

To  tempt  the  wilderness? 
And  who  'mid  thunder  peals  can  hear 

Our  signal  of  distress? 

And  who  that  heard  our  shouts  would  rise 

To  try  the  dubious  road? 
Nor  rather  deem  from  nightly  cries 

That  outlaws  were  abroad. 

Clouds  burst,  skies  flash,  oh,  dreadful  hour  ! 

More  fiercely  pours  the  storm  ! 
Yet  here  one  thought  has  still  the  power 

To  keep  my  bosom  warm. 

While  wand'ring  through  each  broken  path, 
O'er  brake  and  craggy  brow; 

While  elements  exhaust  their  wrath, 
Sweet  Florence,  where  art  thou? 


STANZAS.  13 

Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  sea ! 

Thy  bark  hath  long  been  gone : 
Oh,  may  the  storm  that  pours  on  me, 

Bow  down  my  head  alone  ! 

Full  swiftly  blew  the  swift  Siroc, 

When  last  I  press'd  thy  lip; 
And  long  ere  now,  with  foaming  shock, 

Impell'd  thy  gallant  ship. 

Now  thou  art  safe;    nay,  long  ere  now 

Hast  trod  the  shore  of  Spain; 
'T  were  hard  if  aught  so  fair  as  thou 

Should  linger  on  the  main. 

And  since  I  now  remember  thee 

In  darkness  and  in  dread, 
As  in  those  hours  of  revelry 

Which  mirth  and  music  sped; 

Do  thou,  amid  the  fair  white  walls, 

If  Cadiz  yet  be  free, 
At  times  from  out  her  latticed  halls 

Look  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea; 

Then  think  upon  Calypso's  isles, 

Endear'd  by  days  gone  by; 
To  others  give  a  thousand  smiles, 

To  me  a  single  sigh. 

And  when  the  admiring  circle  mark 

The  paleness  of  thy  face, 
A  half-form'd  tear,  a  transient  spark 

Of  melancholy  grace, 


14  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Again  thou  'It  smile,  and  blushing  shun 

Some  coxcomb's  raillery; 
Nor  own  for  once  thou  thought's!  of  one 

Who  ever  thinks  on  thee. 

Though  smile  and  sigh  alike  are  vain, 
When  sever'd  hearts  repine, 

My  spirit  flies  o'er  mount  and  main, 
And  mourns  in  search  of  thine. 


MAID   OF  ATHENS." 
Z(i>rj  fiov,  adg  (i 


MAID  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart  ! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest  ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
,«ou,  a&y  (iya/rcd. 


By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  ^Egean  wind; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
fiov,  a&s 


By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well; 


TO  INEZ.  15 

By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 


Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone; 
Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No  ! 
fiov,  a&g 


TO   INEZ. 

NAY,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brows; 

Alas !  I  cannot  smile  again : 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 
I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 
A  pang  ev'n  thou  must  fail  to  soothe? 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honors  lost, 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state, 
And  fly  from  all  I  prized  the  most : 

It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see: 

To  me  no  pleasure  beauty  brings; 

Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 


1 6  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 
The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore; 

That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 

What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee? 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 

The  blight  of  life  —  the  demon  thought. 

Yet  others  wrapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake; 
Oh !  may  they  still  of  transport  dream, 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 

Through  many  a  clime  't  is  mine  to  go, 
With  many  a  retrospection  curst; 

And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whate'er  betides,  I  've  known  the  worst. 

What  is  that  worst  ?     Nay  do  not  ask  — 
In  pity  from  the  search  forbear; 

Smile  on  —  nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  Hell  that 's  there. 


"  ONE  STRUGGLE  MORE.'" 

"  ONE  struggle  more,"  and  I  am  free 
From  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain; 

One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee, 
Then  back  to  busy  life  again. 


"  ONE  STRUGGLE   MOKE." 

It  suits  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before : 

Though  every  joy  is  fled  below, 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more? 

Then  bring  me  wine,  the  banquet  bring; 

Man  was  not  form'd  to  live  alone : 
I  '11  be  that  light,  unmeaning  thing 

That  smiles  with  all,  and  weeps  with  none. 
It  was  not  thus  in  days  more  dear, 

It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou 
Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  here; 

Thou  'rt  nothing,  —  all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vain  my  lyre  would  lightly  breathe  ! 

The  smile  that  sorrow  fain  would  wear 
But  mocks  the  woe  that  lurks  beneath, 

Like  roses  o'er  a  sepulchre. 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill; 
Though  pleasure  fires  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart  —  the  heart  is  lonely  still ! 

On  many  a  lone  and  lovely  night 

It  sooth'd  to  gaze  upon  the  sky; 
For  then  I  deem'd  the  heavenly  light 

Shone  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye: 
And  oft  I  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon, 

When  sailing  o'er  the  /Egean  wave, 
"  Now  Thyrza  gazes  on  that  moon  —  " 

Alas,  it  gleam'd  upon  her  grave  ! 


l8  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

When  stretch'd  on  fever's  sleepless  bed, 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
11  'T  is  comfort  still,"  I  faintly  said, 

"  That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains:  " 
Like  freedom  to  the  time-worn  slave, 

A  boon  't  is  idle  then  to  give, 
Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life,  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live ! 

My  Thyrza's  pledge  in  better  days, 

When  love  and  life  alike  were  new! 
How  different  now  thou  meet'st  my  gaze ! 

How  tinged  by  time  with  sorrow's  hue ! 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent  —  ah,  were  mine  as  still ! 
Though  cold  as  e'en  the  dead  can  be, 

It  feels,  it  sickens  with  the  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge  !  thou  mournful  token  ! 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast ! 
Still,  still,  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou  'rt  press'd ! 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes, 

More  hallow'd  when  its  hope  is  fled: 
Oh !  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead? 


EUTHANASIA.  19 


EUTHANASIA. 

WHEN  Time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead, 

Oblivion  !  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed ! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep,  or  wish,  the  coming  blow : 

No  maiden,  with  dishevell'd  hair, 
To  feel,  or  feign,  decorous  woe. 

But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth, 
With  no  officious  mourners  near : 

I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  fear. 

Yet  Love,  if  Love  in  such  an  hour 
Could  nobly  check  its  useless  sighs, 

Might  then  exert  its  latest  power 
In  her  who  lives  and  him  who  dies. 

'T  were  sweet,  my  Psyche  !  to  the  last 
Thy  features  still  serene  to  see : 

Forgetful  of  its  struggles  past, 

E'en  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

But  vain  the  wish  —  for  Beauty  still 

Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  ebbing  breath; 

And  woman's  tears,  produced  at  will, 
Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 


20  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Then  lonely  be  my  latest  hour, 
Without  regret,  without  a  groan; 

For  thousands  Death  hath  ceased  to  lower, 
And  pain  been  transient  or  unknown. 

"  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go,"  alas ! 

Where  all  have  gone,  and  all  must  go ! 
To  be  the  nothing  that  I  was 

Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe !  — 

Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 

And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'T  is  something  better  not  to  be. 


AND    THOU  ART  DEAD. 

'  Heu,  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari  quam  tui  meminisse  ! ' 

AND  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare, 

Too  soon  return 'd  to  Earth  ! 
Though  earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  'that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low, 
Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot; 


AND    THOU  ART  DEAD. 

There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 

So  I  behold  them  not : 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 
'T  is  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  as  thou, 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine : 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away, 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away : 


22  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  to  day; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade; 
The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade. 
The  day  without  a  cloud  hath  pass'd, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last; 

Extinguish'd,  not  decay 'd; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 
Though  thou  hast  left  me  free 

The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain 
Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 

The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 


WHEN   WE    TWO  PARTED.  23 

Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 


WHEN  WE   TWO  PARTED. 

WHEN  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow  — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me  — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well :  — 


24  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 
Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met  — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee?  — 

With  silence  and  tears. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

"  O  Lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo  :  quater 
Felix !  in  imo  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit." 

GRAY'S  Poemata. 

THERE  's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes 

away, 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's  dull 

decay; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone,  which 

fades  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth  itself  be 

past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above   the  wreck  of 

happiness 
Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of  excess: 


STANZAS  FOR   MUSIC.  25 

The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in 

vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall  never  stretch 

again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself 

comes  down; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its 

own; 
That  heavy  chill   has  frozen  o'er  the   fountain  of   our 

tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  't  is  where  the  ice 

appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  distract 

the  breast, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their  former 

hope  of  rest; 

'T  is  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreath, 
All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and  gray 

beneath. 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  — or  be  what  I  have  been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept,  o'er  many  a  vanish'd 

scene; 
As  springs  in  deserts  found   seem   sweet,  all   brackish 

though  they  be, 
So,  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 

flow  to  me. 


26  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

STANZAS  FOR  AUGUSTA. 
THOUGH  the  day  of  my  destiny  's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shiver'd, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  deliver'd 

To  pain  —  it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn  — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me  - — 

'T  is  of  thee  that  I  think  —  not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 
Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 

Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me, 
Though  slander'd,,  thou  never  could'st  shake, 


SOLITUDE.  27 

Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  't  was  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor,  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one  — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun : 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perish'd, 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  cherish'd 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all: 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 


SOLITUDE. 
(CniLDE  HAROLD,  Canto  ii.  Stanzas  25,  26.) 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been; 


28  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold: 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean; 
This  is  not  solitude;    't  is  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores  un- 
roll'd. 

But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen, 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless; 
Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flatter'd,  follow'd,  sought,  and  sued; 
This  is  to  be  alone;   this,  this  is  solitude. 


NATURE    THE  CONSOLER. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  13-15.) 

WHERE  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were  friends; 
Where  roll'd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home; 
Where  a  blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime,  extends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam, 
Were  unto  him  companionship;    they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 


THE   SAME.  29 

Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars, 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams;   and  earth,  and  earth-born  jars, 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite: 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy;    but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos  us  to  its 
brink. 

But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  clipt  wing, 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat. 


THE   SAME. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  71-75.) 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone, 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 


30  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care, 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake;  — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  inflict  or  bear? 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me;   and  to  me 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture :    I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain, 
Class'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

And  thus  I  am  absorb'd,  and  this  is  life; 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  I  was  cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion;    which  I  feel  to  spring, 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous,  as  the  blast 
Which  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing, 
Spurning   the   clay-cold   bonds  which   round  our  being 
cling. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm,  — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform, 


THE   POET  AND    THE    WORLD       31 

And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The  bodiless  thought?  the  Spirit  of  each  spot? 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal  lot? 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a  part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion?  should  I  not  contemn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  these?  and  stem 
A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 
Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly  phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turn'd  below, 
Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which  dare  not 
glow? 


THE  POET  AND  THE    WORLD. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  113,  114.) 

I  HAVE  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me; 

I  hare  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 

To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee,  — 

Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles,  —  nor  cried  aloud 

In  worship  of  an  echo;   in  the  crowd 

They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such;   I  stood 

Among  them,  but  not  of  them;   in  a  shroud 

Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and  still 

could, 
Had  I  not  filed  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 


32  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me,  — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes;    I  do  believe, 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  v  hich  are  things,  — hopes  which  will  not  de 

ceive , 

And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing:   I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve; 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem,  — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream. 


BEREA  VEMENT. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  ii.  Stanza  98.) 
WHAT  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age? 
What  stamps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow? 
To  view  each  loved  one  blotted  from  life's  page, 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I  am  now. 
Before  the  Chastener  humbly  let  me  bow, 
O'er  hearts  divided  and  o'er  hopes  destroy'd: 
Roll  on,  vain  days !   full  reckless  may  ye  flow, 
Since  Time  hath  reft  whate'er  my  soul  enjoy'd, 
And  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years  alloy'd. 


LAST  LEAVING  ENGLAND. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  i,  2.) 
Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child ! 
ADA!  sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blu^  eyes  they  smiled, 


ENGLAND.  33 

And  then  we  parted,  —  not  as  now  we  part, 
But  with  a  hope.  — • 

Awaking  with  a  start, 

The  waters  heave  around  me;    and  on  high 
The  winds  lift  up  their  voices:    I  depart, 
Whither  I  know  not;   but  the  hour  's  gone  by, 
When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could   grieve   or  glad 
mine  eye. 

Once  more  upon  the  waters !  yet  once  more  ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome  to  the  roar  ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead  ! 
Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 
And  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 
Still  must  I  on;    for  I  am  as  a  weed, 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
W7here'er  the   surge   may  sweep,  the  tempest's   breath 
prevail. 


ENGLAND. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  8-10.) 

I  'VE  taught  me  other  tongues  —  and  in  strange  eyes 

Have  made  me  not  a  stranger;    to  the  mind 

Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise; 

Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 

A  country  with  —  ay,  or  without  mankind; 

Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be, 

Not  without  cause;   and  should  I  leave  behind 


34  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

The  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free, 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea, 

Perhaps  I  loved  it  well;    and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it  —  if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.      I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remcmber'd  in  my  line 
With  my  land's  language :   if  too  fond  and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline,  — 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 

My  n&me  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honor'd  by  the  nations  —  let  it  be  — 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me  — 
"  Sparta  hath  many  a  worthier  son  than  he." 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reap'd  are  of  the  tree 
I  planted,  — they  have  torn  me,  —  and  I  bleed: 
I  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  from  such 
a  seed. 


RUINS   TO  RUINS. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  130,  131.) 

OH  Time  !  the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled  — 
Time !  the  corrector  where  our  judgments  err, 


THE  DREAM.  35 

The  test  of  truth,  love, — sole  philosopher, 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift, 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer  — 
Time,  the  avenger !  unto  thee  I  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a  gift : 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  shrine 
And  temple  more  divinely  desolate, 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine, 
Ruins  of  years  —  though  few,  yet  full  of  fate :  — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate, 
Hear  me  not;   but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain  — shall  they  not  mourn? 


THE   DREAM. 

I  SAW  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 

Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 

Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 

As  't  were  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 

Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 

But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 

Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 

Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 

Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs;   the  hill 

Was  crown 'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 

Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fix'd, 

Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man : 


36  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 

Gazing  —  the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 

Fair  as  herself  —  but  the  boy  gazed  on  her; 

And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful: 

And  both  were  young  —  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge, 

The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood; 

The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 

Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 

There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 

And  that  was  shining  on  him;    he  had  look'd 

Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers; 

She  was  his  voice;   he  did  not  speak  to  her, 

But  trembled  on  her  words;   she  was  his  sight, 

For  his  eye  follow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 

Which  color'd  all  his  objects:  —  he  had  ceased 

To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 

Which  terminated  all :   upon  a  tone, 

A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously  —  his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share: 

Her  sighs  were  not  for  him;   to  her  he  was 

Even  as  a  brother  —  but  no  more;    't  was  much, 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 

Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him; 

Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 

Of  a  time-honor'd  race.  • — •  It  was  a  name 

Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not  —  and  why? 


THE  DREAM.  37 

Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer  —  when  she  loved 
Another;    even  now  she  loved  another, 
And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy  and  flew. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd: 

Within  an  antique  Oratory  stood 

The  Boy  of  whom  I  spake;  — he  was  alone, 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro :  anon 

He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;   then  he  lean'd 

His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  't  were 

With  a  convulsion  —  then  arose  again, 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 

What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet :   as  he  paused, 

The  Lady  of  his  love  re-enter'd  there; 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 

She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved,  —  she  knew, 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 

Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand;    a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came; 

He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 


38  POETRY  OF  BYRON, 

Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 
For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles;    he  pass'd 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way; 
And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Boy  was  sprung  to  manhood :  in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  Soul  drank  their  sunbeams :   he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects;    he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been;   on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all;   and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruin'd  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them;   by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten 'd  near  a  fountain;   and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around: 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  Heaven. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  One 
Who  did  not  love  her  better :  —  in  her  home, 


THE   DREAM.  39 

A  thousand  leagues  from  his,  —  her  native  home, 

She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  Infancy, 

Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty,  —  but  behold  ! 

Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 

The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 

And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye 

As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 

What  could  her  grief  be?  —  she  had  all  she  loved, 

And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 

To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 

Or  ill-repress'd  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 

What  could  her  grief  be?  —  she  had  loved  him  not, 

Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 

Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 

Upon  her  mind  —  a  spectre  of  the  past. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream, 

The  Wanderer  was  return'd.  —  I  saw  him  stand 

Before  an  Altar  —  with  a  gentle  bride; 

Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 

The  Starlight  of  his  Boyhood;  — as  he  stood 

Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 

The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 

That  in  the  antique  Oratory  shook 

His  bosom  in  its  solitude;    and  then  — 

As  in  that  hour  - —  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  —  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 

The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 

And  all  things  reel'd  around  him;    he  could  see 


40  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustom'd  hall, 
And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light : 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time? 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love;  —  Oh  !  she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul;    her  mind 
Had  wander'd  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth;   she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm;    her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy;  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore, 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  with  him;    he  was  a  mark 


THE   POET'S   CURSE.  41 

For  blight  and  desolation,  compass'd  round 

With  Hatred  and  Contention;    Pain  was  mix'd 

In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 

Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days, 

He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 

But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment;   he  lived 

Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men, 

And  made  him  friends  of  mountains:   with  the  stars 

And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 

He  held  his  dialogues;    and  they  did  teach 

To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries; 

To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  open'd  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 

A  marvel  and  a  secret  —  Be  it  so. 

My  dream  was  past;   it  had  no  further  change. 

It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality  —  the  one 

To  end  in  madness  —  both  in  misery. 


THE  FOETUS  CURSE. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  134-137.) 

AND  if  my  voice  break  forth,  't  is  not  that  now 
I  shrink  from  what  is  suffer'd:   let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 


42  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse, 
Though  I  be  ashes;   a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse, 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  curse  ! 

That  curse  shall  be  Forgiveness.  —  Have  I  not  — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth  !  behold  it,  Heaven  !  — 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot  ? 
Have  I  not  suffer'd  things  to  be  forgiven? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  sear'd,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapp'd,  name  blighted,  Life's  life  lied  away? 
Ami  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I  survey. 

From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 
Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  seem  true, 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh, 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  obloquy. 

But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain: 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire, 
And  my  frame  perish  even  in  conquering  pain; 
But  there  is  that  within  me  which  shall  tire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  I  expire; 
Something  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not  of, 
Like  the  remember'd  tone  of  a  mute  lyre, 
Shall  on  their  soften'd  spirits  sink,  and  move 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 


NATURE    TO    THE  LAST.  43 

NA  TURE  TO  THE  LAST. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  175-184.) 

MY  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part,  — so  let  it  be ! 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea. 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  follow'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roll'H 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades;    long  years  — 
Long,  though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both;   some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun: 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 
We  have  had  our  reward —  and  it  is  here; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

Oh !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her ! 
Ye  Elements  !  —  in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted  —  Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being?     Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 


44  POETRY  OF  BYRON, 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar. 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore; —  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee;    the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth: — there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 


NATURE    TO    THE   LAST.  4$ 

And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;   their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;    their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;   in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  — 
The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;    even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;   each  zone 
Obeys  thee;   thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :   from  a  boy 
I  wanton 'd  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 


46  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Were  a  delight;   and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror —  't  was  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 


"SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY." 

SHE  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that  's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


SONG   OF  SAUL.  47 

"OHf  SNA  TCH  '  D  A  WA  Y." 

OH  !  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom, 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom: 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread; 
Fond  wretch !  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead. 

Away  !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 

That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress : 

Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain? 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 

And  thou  —  who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 


SONG   OF  SAUL. 

WARRIORS  and  chiefs  !  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,  in  your  path: 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath ! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow, 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe, 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet ! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to  ireet. 


48  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part, 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart ! 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway, 
Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to-day! 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 

THE  King  was  on  his  throne, 

The  Satraps  throng'd  the  hall; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 

In  Judah  deem'd  divine  — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  Heathen's  wine  ! 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand : 
The  fingers  of  a  man;  — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 
And  bade  no  more  rejoice; 

All  bloodless  wax'd  his  look, 
And  tremulous  his  voice. 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR.  49 

"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear, 

The  wisest  of  the  earth 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldea's  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill; 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage, 

They  saw  —  but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, 
He  heard  the  king's  command, 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view; 
He  read  it  on  that  night,  — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

"  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made, 

His  kingdom  pass'd  away, 
He,  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay. 
The  shroud,  his  robe  of  state, 

His  canopy  the  stone; 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate ! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne  !  " 


50  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 


DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

THE  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  were  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green, 
Tha'  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord ! 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE.     51 


ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 

'T  is  done,  —  but  yesterday  a  Kir.g ! 

And  arm'd  with  Kings  to  strive  — 

And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing: 

So  abject  —  yet  alive  ! 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who  strew'd  our  earth  with  hostile  bones, 

And  can  he  thus  survive?  — 
Since  he,  miscall 'd  the  Morning  Star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Ill-minded  man  !   why  scourge  thy  kind 

Who  bow'd  so  low  the  knee? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  unquestion'd,  —  power  to  save,  — 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave 

To  those  that  worshipp'd  thee; 
Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition's  less  than  littleness  ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson  —  it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  Philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preach'd  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway. 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 


52  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

The  triumph,  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife  — 
The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem'd  made  but  to  obey, 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife  — 
All  quell'd  !  —  Dark  Spirit !  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  ! 

The  Desolater  desolate? 

The  Victor  overthrown ! 
The  Arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own  ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone? 
To  die  a  prince  —  or  live  a  slave  — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave ! 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak, 
Dream'd  not  of  the  rebound; 

Chain'd  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke  — 
Alone  —  how  look'd  he  round? 

Thou  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength 

An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length, 
And  darker  fate  hast  found; 

He  fell,  the  forest  prowlers'  prey; 

But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away ! 

The  Roman  when  his  burning  heart 
Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE.      53 

Threw  down  the  dagger  —  dared  depart, 

In  savage  grandeur,  home.  — 
He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandon'd  power. 

The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  sway 

Had  lost  its  quickening  spell, 
Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 

An  empire  for  a  cell; 
A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 
A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 

His  dotage  trifled  well: 
Yet  better  had  he  never  known 
A  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou  —  from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung  — 
Too  late  thou  leav'st  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung; 
All  Evil  Spirit  as  thou  art, 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  mean; 

And  Earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own  ! 
And  Monarchs  bow'd  the  trembling  limb, 

And  thank'd  him  for  a  throne ! 


54  POETRY  OF  BY  RON. 

Fair  Freedom !  we  may  hold  thee  dear, 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
Oh  !  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore, 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain  — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain  : 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honor  dies, 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise, 

To  shame  the  world  again  — 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night? 

Weigh'd  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality  !  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away: 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate, 

To  dazzle  and  dismay; 

Nor  deem'd  Contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 
Of  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 

Thy  still  imperial  bride; 
How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  ? 
Must  she  too  bend,  must  she  too  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  throneless  Homicide? 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE.      55 

If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem, 
'T  is  worth  thy  vanish'd  diadem  ! 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile  — 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee ! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand 
In  loitering  mood  upon  the  sand 

That  Earth  is  now  as  free ! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  hath  now 
Transferr'd  his  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

Thou  Timour  !  in  his  captive's  cage 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine. 

While  brooding  in  thy  prison'd  rage? 
But  one  —  "  The  world  was  mine  !  " 

Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 

All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 
Life  will  not  long  confine 

That  spirit  pour'd  so  widely  forth  — 

So  long  obey'd  —  so  little  worth  ! 

Or,  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven, 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven, 

His  vulture  and  his  rock  ! 
Foredoom 'd  by  God — by  man  accurst, 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst, 

The  very  Fiend's  arch  mock; 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride, 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died! 


56  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

There  was  a  day  —  there  was  an  hour, 

While  earth  was  Gaul's  —  Gaul  thine  — 
When  that  immeasurable  power 

Unsated  to  resign 
Had  been  an  act  of  purer  fame 
Than  gathers  round  Marengo's  name, 

And  gilded  thy  decline 
Through  the  long  twilight  of  all  time, 
Despite  some  passing  clouds  of  crime. 

But  thou  forsooth  must  be  a  king, 

And  don  the  purple  vest,  — 
As  if  that  foolish  robe  could  wring 

Remembrance  from  thy  breast. 
Where  is  that  faded  garment?  where 
The  gewgaws  thou  wert  fond  to  wear, 

The  star  — the  string  —  the  crest? 
Vain  froward  child  of  empire  !  say, 
Are  all  thy  playthings  snatch 'd  away? 

Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 

When  gazing  on  the  Great; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state? 

Yes  —  one  —  the  first  —  the  last  —  the  best  - 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeath'd  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  one ! 


ODE    ON   WATERLOO.  57 


ODE   ON  WATERLOO. 

WE  do  not  curse  thee,  Waterloo  ! 

Though  Freedom's  blood  thy  plain  bedew; 

There  't  was  shed,  but  is  not  sunk  — 

Rising  from  each  gory  trunk, 

Like  the  water-spout  from  ocean, 

With  a  strong  and  growing  motion  — 

It  soars,  and  mingles  in  the  air, 

With  that  of  lost  Labedoyere — 

With  that  of  him  whose  honor'd  grave 

Contains  the  "bravest  of  the  brave." 

A  crimson  cloud  it  spreads  and  glows, 

But  shall  return  to  whence  it  rose; 

When  't  is  full  't  will  burst  asunder  — 

Never  yet  was  heard  such  thunder 

As  then  shall  shake  the  world  with  wonder  • 

Never  yet  was  seen  such  lightning 

As  o'er  heaven  shall  then  be  bright'ning! 

Like  the  Wormwood  Star  foretold 

By  the  sainted  Seer  of  old, 

Show'ring  down  a  fiery  flood, 

Turning  rivers  into  blood. 

The  Chief  has  fallen,  but  not  by  you, 

Vanquisheis  of  Waterloo! 

When  the  soldier  citizen 

Sway'd  not  o'er  his  fellow-men  — 

Save  in  deeds  that  led  them  on 

Where  Glory  smiled  on  Freedom's  son- 


58  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded, 
With  that  youthful  chief  competed? 
Who  could  boast  o'er  France  defeated, 
Till  lone  Tyranny  commanded? 
Till,  goaded  by  ambition's  sting, 
The  Hero  sunk  into  the  King? 
Then  he  fell :  —  so  perish  all, 
Who  would  men  by  man  enthrall ! 

And  thou,  too,  of  the  snow-white  plume ! 
Whose  realm  refused  thee  ev'n  a  tomb; 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 
France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding, 
Than  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame 
For  a  meanly  royal  name; 
Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears, 
Who  thy  blood-bought  title  bears. 
Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 
On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks 
Like  a  stream  which  burst  its  banks, 
While  helmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing, 
Shone  and  shiver'd  fast  around  thee  — 
Of  the  fate  at  last  which  found  thee: 
Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 
By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow? 
Once — as  the  Moon  sways  o'er  the  tide, 
It  roll'd  in  air,  the  warrior's  guide; 
Through  the  smoke-created  night 
Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  fight, 
The  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 
To  catch  that  crest's  ascendency,  — 


ODE   ON   WATERLOO.  59 

And,  as  it  onward  rolling  rose, 

So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes. 

There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest, 

And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest, 

Strew'd  beneath  the  advancing  banner 

Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest  — 
(There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her, 

Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest  — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast?) 
While  the  broken  line  enlarging 

Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain; 
There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging ! 

There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again ! 

O'er  glories  gone  the  invaders  march, 

Weeps  Triumph  o'er  each  levell'd  arch  — 

But  let  Freedom  rejoice, 

With  her  heart  in  her  voice; 

But,  her  hand  on  the  sword, 

Doubly  shall  she  be  adored; 

France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught 

The  "  moral  lesson  "  dearly  bought  — 

Her  safety  sits  not  on  a  throne, 

With  Capet  or  Napoleon ! 

But  in  equal  rights  and  laws, 

Hearts  and  hands  in  one  great  cause  — 

Freedom,  such  as  God  hath  given 

Unto  all  beneath  his  heaven, 

With  their  breath,  and  from  their  birth, 

Though  Guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth— 

With  a  fierce  and  lavish  hand 


60  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Scattering  nations'  wealth  like  sand; 
Pouring  nations'  blood  like  water, 
In  imperial  seas  of  slaughter  I 

But  the  heart  and  the  mind, 
And  the  voice  of  mankind, 
Shall  arise  in  communion  — 
And  who  shall  resist  that  proud  union? 
The  time  is  past  when  swords  subdued  - 
Man  may  die  —  the  soul's  renew'd : 
Even  in  this  low  world  of  care 
Freedom  ne'er  shall  want  an  heir; 
Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  forever  bounding  spirit  — 
When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble, 
Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble  — 
Smile  they  at  this  idle  threat? 
Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet. 


NAPOLEONS  FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL  to  the  Land,  where  the  gloom  of  my  Glory 

Arose  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name  — 

She  abandons  me  now  —  but  the  page  of  her  story, 

The  brightest  or  blackest,  is  rilled  with  my  fame. 

I  have  warr'd  with  a  world  which  vanquish'd  me  only 

When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far; 

I  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus  lonely, 

The  last  single  Captive  to  millions  in  war. 


LAMENT  OF  TASSO.  61 

Farewell  to  thee,  France  !  when  thy  diadem  crown'd  me, 

I  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth,  — 

But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  I  found  thee, 

Decay'd  in  thy  glory,  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 

Oh !  for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 

In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were  won  — 

Then  the  Eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was  blasted. 

Had  still  soar'd  with  eyes  fix'd  on  victory's  sun ! 

Farewell  to  thee,  France! — but  when  Liberty  rallies 
Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remember  me  then. 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys; 
Though  wither'd,  thy  tear  will  unfold  it  again. 
Yet,  yet,  I  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us, 
And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap  awake  to  my  voice  — 
There  are  links  which  must  break  in  the  chain  that  has 

bound  us, 
Then  turn  thee  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy  choice ! 


LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 

LONG  years !  —  It  tries  the  thrilling  frame  to  bear 
And  eagle-spirit  of  a  Child  of  Song  — 
Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny,  and  wrong; 
Imputed  madness,  prison'd  solitude, 
And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood, 
When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 
Parches  the  heart;    and  the  abhorred  grate, 
Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 
Works  through  the  throbbing  eyeball  to  the  brail 


62  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

With  a  hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain; 
And  bare,  at  once,  Captivity  display'd 
Stands  scoffing  through  the  never-open'd  gate, 
Which  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save  daj, 
And  tasteless  food,  which  I  have  eat  alone 
Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone; 
And  I  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey, 
Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 
Which  is  my  lair,  and  —  it  may  be  —  my  grave. 
.  All  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear, 
But  must  be  borne.     I  stoop  not  to  despair; 
For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony, 
And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 
The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall, 
And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall; 
And  revell'd  among  men  and  things  divine, 
And  pour'd  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 
In  honor  of  the  sacred  war  for  Him, 
The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven, 
For  he  hath  strengthen'd  me  in  heart  and  limb. 
That  through  this  sufferance  I  might  be  forgiven, 
I  have  employ'd  my  penance  to  record 
How  Salem's  shrine  was  won,  and  how  adored. 

But  this  is  o'er  —  my  pleasant  task  is  done:  — 

My  long-sustaining  friend  of  many  years ! 

If  I  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears, 

Know,  that  my  sorrows  have  wrung  from  me  none. 

But  thou,  my  young  creation  !  my  soul's  child  ! 

Which  ever  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled 

And  woo'd  me  from  myself  with  that  sweet  sight, 


DANTE  IN  EXILE.  63 

Thou  too  art  gone  —  and  so  is  my  delight : 
And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleed 
With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 


DANTE  L\  EXILE. 
(PROPHECY  OF  DANTE,  Canto  i.) 

ALAS  !  with  what  a  weight  upon  my  brow 

The  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  come  back, 
Corrosive  passions,  feelings  dull  and  low, 

The  heart's  quick  throb  upon  the  mental  rack, 
Long  day,  and  dreary  night;  the  retrospect 
Of  half  a  century  bloody  and  black, 

And  the  frail  few  years  I  may  yet  expect 
Hoary  and  hopeless,  but  less  hard  to  bear, 
For  I  have  been  too  long  and  deeply  wreck'd 

On  the  lone  rock  of  desolate  Despair 
To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  passing  sail 
Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare; 

Nor  raise  my  voice  —  for  who  would  heed  my  wail  ? 
I  am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age, 
And  yet  my  harpings  will  unfold  a  tale 

Which  shall  preserve  these  times  when  not  a  page 
Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 
An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage, 

Did  not  my  verse  embalm  full  many  an  act 

Worthless  as  they  who  wrought  it :   't  is  the  doom 
Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  rack'd 


64  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

In  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  out,  and  consume 

Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone; 

Then  future  thousands  crowd  around  their  tomb, 
And  pilgrims  come  from  climes  where  they  have  known 

The  name  of  him  —  who  now  is  but  a  name, 

And  wasting  homage  o'er  the  sullen  stone, 
Spread  his — by  him  unheard,  unheeded  —  fame; 

And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear :  to  die 

Is  nothing;   but  to  wither  thus  —  to  tame 
My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity  — 

To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 

A  common  sight  to  every  common  eye, 
A  wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a  den, 

Ripp'd  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all  things 

That  make  communion  sweet,  and  soften  pain  — 
To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings 

Without  the  power  that  makes  them  bear  a  crown  — 

To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 
Which  waft  him  where  the  Apennine  looks  down 

On  Arno,  till  he  perches,  it  may  be, 

Within  my  all  inexorable  town, 
Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she, 

Their  mother,  the  cold  partner  who  hath  brought 

Destruction  for  a  dowry — this  to  see 
And  feel,  and  know  without  repair,  hath  taught 

A  bitter  lesson;  but  it  leaves  me  free: 

I  have  not  vilely  found,  nor  basely  sought, 
They  made  an  Exile  —  not  a  slave  of  me. 


THE  ISLES   OF  GREECE.  65 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE. 

(SONG  OF   A  GREEK.) 

THE  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace,  — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations;  — all  were  his! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they? 


66  POETRY  OF  BYRON, 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'T  is  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah  !  no;  — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise,  — we  come,  we  come!  " 
'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  — in  vain:  strike  other  chords; 
Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 


THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE.  67 

Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 
And  shed-the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these ! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 

He  served  —  but  served  Polycrates  — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 


68  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells: 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


LINES   TO  A   LADY  WEEPING! 

WEEP,  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 
A  Sire's  disgrace,  a  realm's  decay; 

Ah  !  happy  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away  ! 

Weep  —  for  thy  tears  are  Virtue's  tears  — 
Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles; 

And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 
Repaid  thee  by  thy  people's  smiles ! 
1  The  Princess  Charlotte. 


DEA  TH  OF  THE  PRINCESS  CHARLO  TTE.   69 


DEATH  OF    THE  PRINCESS  CHAR- 
LOTTE. 

(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  167-172.) 

HARK  !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  ground, 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy, 
Death  hush'd  that  pang  forever:   with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  fill'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seem'd  to  cloy. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety.  — Can  it  be, 

Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored ! 

Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 

And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 

Her  many  griefs  for  ONE;    for  she  had  pour'd 


70  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris. — Thou,  too,  lonely  lord, 
And  desolate  consort  —  vainly  wert  thou  wed ! 
The  husband  of  a  year  !  the  father  of  the  dead ! 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made; 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes :  in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair'd  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions  !     How  did  we  intrust 
Futurity  to  her !  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem'd 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  blest 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem'd 
Like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes:  —  'twas  but  a  meteor 
beam'd. 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her;   for  she  sleeps  well: 
The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'erstung 
Nations  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strange  fate 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon  or  late,  — 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe, 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother  —  and  now  there  ! 
How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear  ! 


IMMORTALITY. 

From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  opprest 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  love 
thee  best. 


IMMORTALITY. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  ii.  Stanzas  7,  8.) 

WELL  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son ! 
"  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimeth  best; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever  welcome  rest. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labors  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal'd  to  sight, 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  the  right ! 


72  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

"ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY 
THIRTY-SIXTH  YEAR." 

'T  IS  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move; 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love  ! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze  — 
A  funeral  pile ! 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care. 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  't  is  not  thus  —  and  't  is  not  here  — 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 


LIFE.  73 

Awake  !  (not  Greece  —  she  is  awake  !) 

Awake,  my  spirit !     Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood  !  — unto  thee 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regret'st  thy  youth,  why  live? 

The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here:  — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out  —  less  often  sought  than  found  — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest. 


LIFE. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  xv.  Stanza  99. , 

BETWEEN  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 

'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge. 

How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are ! 

How  less  what  we  may  be  !     The  eternal  surge 

Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 
Our  bubbles;   as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 

Lash'd  from  the  foam  of  ages;   while  the  graves 

Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  passing  waves. 


II. 

DESCRIPTIVE   AND   NARRATIVE. 


GREECE. 

(THE  CORSAIR,  Canto  iii.) 

SLOW  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 

Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun; 

Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 

But  one  rnclouded  blaze  of  living  light; 

O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 

Gilds  the  green  wave  that  trembles  as  it  glows; 

On  old  /Egina's  rock  and  Hydra's  isle 

The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile; 

O'er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 

Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 

Descending  fast,  the  mountain-shadows  kiss 

Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamis  ! 

Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse, 

More  deeply  purpled,  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 

And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 

Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven; 

Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 

Behind  his  Delphian  rock  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve  his  palest  beam  he  cast 
When,  Athens !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  latest  day ! 
Not  yet  —  not  yet  —  Sol  pauses  on  the  hill, 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still; 
77 


78  POEThY  OF  BYRON. 

But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes; 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before; 
But  e'er  he  sunk  below  Citheron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff'd  —  the  spirit  fled; 
The  soul  of  him  that  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly, 
Who  lived  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die. 

But,  lo !  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign; 
No  murky  vapor,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  or  girds  her  glowing  form. 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonbeams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And  bright  around,  with  quivering  beams  beset, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret; 
The  groves  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide, 
Where  meek  Cephisus  sheds  his  scanty  tide, 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk, 
And  sad  and  sombre  mid  the  holy  calm, 
Near  Theseus'  fane,  yon  solitary  palm; 
All,  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye; 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  /Egean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  expanse  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mix'd  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 
That  frown,  where  gentler  ocean  deigns  to  smile. 


THE    ABASEMENT    OF    GREECE. 

THE  SAME. 
(From  THE  GIAOUR.) 

FAIR  clime  !  where  every  season  smiles 
Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height, 
Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 
And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 
There  mildly  dimpling,  Ocean's  cheek 
Reflects  the  tints  of  many  a  peak 
Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave : 
And  if  at  times  a  transient  breeze 
Break  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seas, 
Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 
How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air 
That  wakes  and  wafts  the  odors  there ! 
For  there —  the  Rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 
Sultana  of  the  Nightingale, 

The  maid  for  whom  his  melody, 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high, 
Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale : 
His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 
Unbent  by  winds,  unchill'd  by  snows, 
Far  from  the  winters  of  the  west, 
By  every  breeze  and  season  blest, 
Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given 
In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven; 
And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 
Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 


8o  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  many  a  summer  flower  is  there, 

And  many  a  shade  that  love  might  share, 

And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest, 

That  holds  the  pirate  for  a  guest; 

Whose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 

Lurks  for  the  passing  peaceful  prow, 

Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar 

Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star; 

Then  stealing  with  the  muffled  oar 

Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore, 

Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey, 

And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 

Strange  —  that  where  Nature  loved  to  trace. 

As  if  for  Gods,  a  dwelling  place, 

And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mix't 

Within  the  paradise  she  fix't, 

There  man,  enamour'd  of  distress, 

Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 

And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 

That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour; 

Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 

To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land, 

But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care, 

And  sweetly  woos  him  —  but  to  spare  ! 

Strange  —  that  where  all  is  peace  beside, 

There  passion  riots  in  her  pride, 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 

To  darken  o'er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevail 'd 

Against  the  seraphs  they  assail'd, 

And,  fix'd  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 


THE  ABASEMENT  OF  GREECE.  8 1 

The  free  inheritors  of  hell; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy, 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy ! 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 

Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 

The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress 

(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 

And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  air, 

The  rapture  of  repose  that 's  there, 

The  fix't  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 

The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 

And  —  but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 

That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 

Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy 

Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon; 

Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone, 

Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power; 

So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd, 

The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd ! 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore; 

'T  is  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more  I 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 


82  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath; 
But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 
That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth '. 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave  ! 
Shrine  of  the  mighty !  can  it  be, 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee? 
Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave : 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

Oh  servile  offspring  of  the  free  — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis  ! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own; 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame: 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeath'd  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 


CALL  TO  TRIUMPH.  83 

Though  baffled  oft,  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age  ! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command, 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land ! 
There  points  thy  Muse  to  stranger's  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die ! 
'T  were  long  to  tell  and  sad  to  trace, 
Each  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace; 
Enough  —  no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell; 
Yes  !  Self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain  bonds  and  despot  sway. 


THE  SAME. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  ii.  Stanzas  73-77.) 

FAIR  GREECE  !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 
Immortal,  though  no  more;    though  fallen,  great! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scatter'd  children  forth, 
And  long  accustom'd  bondage  uncreate? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait  — 
Oh !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb? 


84  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Spirit  of  freedom  !   when  on  Phyle's  brow 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  forbode  the  dismal  hour  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand, 
From   birth    till   death   enslaved;     in    word,  in    deed, 
unmann'd. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed  !   and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye, 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burn'd  anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty ! 
And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage : 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage, 
Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful  page. 

Hereditary  bondsmen  !  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye?  no ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low, 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  !  triumph  o'er  your  foe  ! 
Greece !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 


LOVELINESS  OF  GREECE.  85 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 
The  Giaour  from  Othman's  race  again  may  wrest; 
And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest; 
Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood  who  dared  divest 
The  prophet's  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 
May  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  the  West; 
But  ne'er  will  freedom  seek  this  fated  soil, 
But  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toil. 


THE   SAME. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  ii.  Stanzas  84-88.) 

WHEN  riseth  Lacedsemon's  hardihood, 
When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again, 
When  Athens'  children  are  with  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men, 
Then  may'st  thou  be  restored;   but  not  till  then ! 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state; 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust :  and  when 
Can  man  its  shatter'd  splendor  renovate, 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fate? 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men  !  art  thou  ! 
Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of  snow, 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favorite  now; 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow, 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth, 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough : 


86  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth, 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth; 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave; 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,  and  gleams  along  the  wave; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave, 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh  "  Alas !  " 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild; 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 
And  still  his  honied  wealth  Hymettus  yields; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

Where'er  we  tread  't  is  haunted,  holy  ground, 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told, 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon : 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  crush'd  thy  temples  gone: 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 


HELLESPONT.  87 

HELLESPONT. 
(THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS,  Canto  ii.) 

THE  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter. 
Oh  !  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  was  blazing  high, 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  warn'd  him  home; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go, 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear, 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear; 
His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love, 
The  only  star  it  hail'd  above; 
His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
"  Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long !  "  — 
That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 
May  nerve  young  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 

The  winds  are  high,  and  Helle's  tide 

Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main; 
And  Night's  descending  shadows  hide 

That  field  with  blood  bedew'd  in  vain, 
The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride; 

The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 
All  —  save  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle  ! 


88  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

TROY. 

(DON  JUAN,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  76-78.) 

THERE,  on  the  green  and  village-cotted  hill,  is 
(Flank'd  by  the  Hellespont,  and  by  the  sea) 

Entomb'd  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  Achilles; 
They  say  so  —  (Bryant  says  the  contrary); 

And  further  downward,  tall  and  towering  still,  is 

The  tumulus  —  of  whom?  Heaven  knows;  't  may  be 

Patroclus,  Ajax,  or  Protesilaus; 

All  heroes,  who,  if  living  still,  would  slay  us. 

High  barrows,  without  marble,  or  a  name, 
A  vast,  untill'd,  and  mountain-skirted  plain, 

And  Ida  in  the  distance,  still  the  same, 
And  old  Scamander  (if  'tis  he),  remain; 

The  situation  seems  still  form'd  for  fame  — 
A  hundred  thousand  men  might  fight  again 

With  ease;   but  where  I  sought  for  Ilion's  walls, 

The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawls; 

Troops  of  untended  horses;   here  and  there 
Some  little  hamlets,  with  new  names  uncouth; 

Some  shepherds  (unlike  Paris)  led  to  stare 
A  moment  at  the  European  youth 

Whom  to  the  spot  their  school-boy  feelings  bear; 
A  Turk,  with  beads  in  hand,  and  pipe  in  mouth, 

Extremely  taken  with  his  own  religion, 

Are  what  I  found  there  —  but  the  devil  a  Phrygian. 


THE   DRACHENFELS.  89 

THE   DRACHENFELS. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.) 

THE  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine,  — • 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me; 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 

I  know  that  they  must  wither'd  be, 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such; 

For  I  have  cherish'd  them  as  dear, 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 


90  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 
When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh. 
And  know'st  them  gather'd  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offer'd  from  my  heart  to  thine ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 

And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round: 

The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound; 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here; 

Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 

Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 

Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine ! 


WA  TERLOO. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  21-30.) 

THERE  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;   and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell  I 


WATERLOO.  91 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No;    't  was  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance !  let  joy  be  unconfined; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet  — 
But,  hark !  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm  !  Arm  !    it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain;   he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell: 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to'and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated;   who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  i 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :   the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car. 


9-J  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with    white   lips  —  "The    foe!     They 
come  !  they  come  !  " 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering  "  rose  ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes:  — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill !     But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings   in  each  clansman's 
ears ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 


WA  TERLOO.  93 

The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms,  —  the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent, 
Rider   aad  horse,  —  friend,   foe, — in  one   red  burial 
blent ! 

Their  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong, 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower'd 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn'd  files  along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd, 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gallant 
Howard ! 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live, 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not 
bring. 


94  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

LAKE   OF  GENEVA.  — CALM. 
(CniLDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  85-87.) 

CLEAR,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;   once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  reproved, 
That   I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep;    and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood;   on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more; 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 


LAKE   OF  GENEVA.  — STORj. 

But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 


LAKE  OF  GENEVA.  — STORM. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  92-96.) 

THY  sky  is  changed  !  — and  such  a  change  !  Oh  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !     Far  along, 
TM-om  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !     Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night :  —  Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 
And  now  again  't  is  black,  — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 


96  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted ! 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted, 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  departed : 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters,  —  war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand: 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around:   of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings,  - —  as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd, 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurk'd. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings !  ye ! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;    the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests!  is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest? 


CLARENS.  97 

CLARENS. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  99-104.) 

CLARENS  !  sweet  Clarens,  birthplace  of  deep  love  ! 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought; 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love;   the  snows  above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colors  caught, 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly:   the  rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love,  who  sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  woos,  thep 
mocks. 

Clarens  !  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod,  — 
Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains;   where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  light,  —  so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest;   o'er  the  flower 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown, 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  hour. 

All  things  are  here  of  him  ;  from  the  black  pines, 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the  shore, 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him,  and  adore, 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs;   and  the  wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar, 


98  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 
Offering  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude. 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 
And  fairy-form'd  and  many-color'd  things, 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than  words, 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings, 
Fearless  and  full  of  life :  the  gush  of  springs, 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 

He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit;    he  who  knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more, 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes, 
And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him  far  from  those, 
For  't  is  his  nature  to  advance  or  die; 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity. 

'T  was  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot, 
Peopling  it  with  affections;   but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings;    't  was  the  ground 
Where  early  Love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound, 
And  hallow'd  it  with  loveliness:    't  is  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound, 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness;   here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps   have  rear'd  a 
throne. 


ITAL  Y.  99 

ITALY. 

(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  42-47.) 

ITALIA  !  oh  Italia !  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Oh,  God  !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress; 

Then  might'st  thou  more  appall;   or,  less  desired, 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructi%re  charms;   then,  still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  poured 
Down  the  deep  Alps;   nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nation'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water;    nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquish'd,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 

Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him,1 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least-mortal  mind, 
The  friend  of  Tully:  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind, 
Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 

1  Senius  Sulpiciu*.     See  Middleton's  Cicero,  vol.  u.  p.  jyi. 


100  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

vEgina  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  right, 
And  Corinth  on  the  left;    I  lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
In  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight; 

For  Time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  uprear'd 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shatter' d  site, 
Which  only  make  more  rnourn'd  and  more  endear'd 
The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter'd  light, 
And  the  crush'd  relics  of  their  vanish'd  might. 
The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age, 
These  sepulchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sad  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 
The  moral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 

That  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perish'd  states  he  mourn'd  in  their  decline, 
And  I  in  desolation :   all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is  ;  and  now,  alas ! 
Rome  —  Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm, 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form, 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  are  warm. 

Yet,  Italy  !   through  every  other  land 

Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side; 

Mother  of  Arts !  as  once  of  arms;   thy  hand 

Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide; 

Parent  of  our  Religion  !  whom  the  wide 

Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven ! 


VENICE. 

Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven, 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 


VENICE. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  1-4.) 

I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand: 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles  ! 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers: 
And  such  she  was;  —  her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deem'd  their  dignity  increased. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier; 


102  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear : 
Those  days  are  gone  —  but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade  —  but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanish'd  sway; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto;   Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away  — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were  o'er 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


VENICE  IN  DEC  A  Y. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  11-13.) 

THE  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord; 
And,  annual  marriage,  now  no  more  renew'd, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood ! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood, 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  wither'd  power, 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequall'd  dower. 


VENICE  IN  DECAY.  103 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns  — 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities;   nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  awhile,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosen'd  from  the  mountain's  belt; 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo !. 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 
Are  they  not  bridled?  —  Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose ! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the,  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 


THE  SAME. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanza  18.) 

I  LOVED  her  from  my  boyhood  —  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart; 
And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art, 
Had  stamp'd  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 


104  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

AN  AUGUST  EVENING  IN  ITALY. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  27-29.) 

THE  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night  — 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her  —  a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains;   Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colors  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air —  an  island  of  the  blest ! 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven;   but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Roll'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhaetian  hill, 
As  day  and  Night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaim'd  her  order :  —  gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  wheie  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd   within  it 
glows, 

Fill'd  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 

Comes  down  upon  the  waters;    all  its  hues, 

From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 

Their  magical  variety  diffuse : 

And  now  they  change;    a  paler  shadow  strews 


THE  AVE   MARIA.  105 

Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains;    parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till  —  't  is  gone  —  and  all  is  gray. 


THE  AVE  MARIA. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  102-109.) 

AVE  Maria  !  blessed  be  the  hour ! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem'd  stirr'd  with  prayer. 

Ave  Maria !  't  is  the  hour  of  prayer ! 

Ave  Maria !   't  is  the  hour  of  love  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above ! 
Ave  Maria  !  oh,  that  face  so  fair  ! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty  dove- 
What  though  'tis  but  a  pictured  image?  —  strike  — 
That  painting  is  no  idol  —  't  is  too  like. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight !  — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 

Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flowed  o'er, 


106  POETRY   OF  BYRON-. 

To  where  the  last  Csesarean  fortress  stood, 

Evergreen  forest !  which  Boccaccio's  lore 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 
How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee  ! 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 

Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine, 
And  vesper  bell's  that  rose  the  boughs  along; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng 

Which  learn'd  from  this  example  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover, — shadow'd  my  mind's  eye. 

Oh,  Hesperus  !  thou  bringest  all  good  things  — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabor'd  steer; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 

Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest; 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 

Soft  hour !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 

When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart; 
Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 

As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 
Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay; 

Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns? 

Ah  !   surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns  ! 


ARQUA.  107 

When  Nero  perish'd  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroy'd, 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoy'd, 

Some  hand  unseen  strew'd  flowers  upon  his  tomb: 
Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not  void 

Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when  power 

Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 


ARQUA. 

(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  30-32.) 
THERE  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua;  —  rear'd  in  air, 
Pillar'd  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover;   here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes, 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes : 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died; 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years;   and  't  is  their  pride 
An  honest  pride  —  and  let  it  be  their  praise, 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre;   both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  form'd  his  monumental  fane. 


io8  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  display'd, 
For  they  cam  lure  no  further;   and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday. 


CLITUMNUS. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  66,  67.) 

BUT  thou,  Clitumnus !  in  thy  sweetest  wave 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes;   the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear; 
Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters  — 
A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty's  youngest  daughters  ! 

And  on  thy  happy  shore  a  Temple  still, 

Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps, 

Upon  ?.  mild  declivity  of  hill, 

Its  memory  of  thee;   beneath  it  sweeps 

Thy  current's  calmness;   oft  from  out  it  leaps 

The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales, 

Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps; 


TERN  I.  109 

While,  chance,  some  scatter'd  water-lily  sails 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bubbling 
tales. 


TERNI. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  69-72.) 

THE  roar  of  waters !  —  from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice; 
The  fall  of  waters !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss; 
The  hell  of  waters !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture;   while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round, 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 
Making  it  all  one  emerald: — how  profound 
The  gulf !  and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound, 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful  vent 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 


no  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly, 
With  many  windings,  through  the  vale :  —  Look  back  ! 
Lo !  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track, 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread,  a  matchless  cataract, 

Horribly  beautiful !  but  on  the  verge, 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge, 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn : 
Resembling,  'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 
Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 


ROME. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  78,  79.) 

OH  Rome !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?     Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe; 


THE   COLISEUM.  Ill 

An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers :  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber  !  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distres: 


THE  COLISEUM. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  139-145.) 

AND  here  the  buzz  of  erger  nations  ran, 
In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughter'd  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughter'd  ?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.  —  Wherefore  not? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms  —  on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot  ? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;    and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd  the  wretch 
who  won. 


H2  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away: 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother  —  he,  their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  — 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood  —  Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged?  —  Arise  !   ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  ! 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  millions'  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
My  voice  sounds  much  —  and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crush'd  —  walls  bow'd  — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps   seem  echoes   strangely 
loud. 

A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin  !   from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appear'd. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  clear'd? 
Alas !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd: 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft 
away. 


TOMti   OF  CECILIA   METELLA.        113 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland  forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot  —  't  is  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand; 

When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall; 

And  when    Rome    falls — the   World."     From   our 

own  land 

Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient;    and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or  what  ye 

will.  

TOMB    OF  CECILIA    METELLA. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Cantc  iv.  Stanzas  99-103.) 

THERE  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  days 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 
Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays, 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 


H4  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  o'erthrown;  — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength?  within  its  cave 
What  treasure  lay  so  lockjd,  so  hid  ?  —  A  woman's  grave. 

But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 

Tomb'd  in  a  palace?     Was  she  chaste  and  fair? 

Worthy  a  king's  —  or  more  —  a  Roman's  bed? 

What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear? 

What  daughter  of  her  bsauties  was  the  heir? 

How  lived  —  how  loved — how   died  she?     Was  she 

not 

So  honor'd  —  and  conspicuously  there, 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal  lot? 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others?  such  have  been 
Even  in  the  olden  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien, 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
Profuse  of  joy  —  or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inveterate  in  virtue?     Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs  ?  —  for  such  the  affections 
are. 

Perchance  she  died  in  youth:    it  may  be,  bow'd 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous  tomb 
That  weigh'd  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  cloud 
Might  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 


GROTTO    OF  EGERIA.  115 

Heaven  gives  its  favorites  —  early  death;   yet  shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead, 
Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

Perchance  she  died  in  age —  surviving  all, 
Charms,  kindred,  children  —  with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall, 
It  may  be,  still  a  something  of  the  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 
By  Rome  —  but  whither  would  Conjecture  stray? 
Thus  much  alone  we  know  —  Metella  died, 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife :   Behold  his  love  or  pride  ! 


GROTTO    OF   EGERIA. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  115-124.) 

EGERIA  !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast;   whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert,  — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air, 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair; 
Or,  ft  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring;   whatsoe'er  thy  birth, 
Thou  wert  a  beautiful  thought,  and  softly  bodied  forth. 

The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops;   the  face 


II 6  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled, 
Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place, 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works,  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prison'd  in  marble;    bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 
The  rill  runs   o'er,  and  round,    fern,    flowers,  and  ivy 
creep 

Fantastically  tangled;   the  green  hills 
Are  clothed  with  early  blossoms,  through  the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep  blue  eyes, 
Kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  colored  by  its 
skies. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enchanted  cover, 
Egeria !  thy  all  heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover; 
The  purple  Midnight  veiled  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befell? 
This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamoured  Goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  Love  — the  earliest  oracle  ! 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  his  replying, 
Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart; 


GROTTO   OF  EGEKIA.  117 

And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  was  born,  in  sighing, 
Share  with  immortal  transports?  could  thine  art 
Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  impart 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys, 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart  — 
The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys  — 
And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which  cloys? 

Alas !  our  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
Or  water  but  the  desert;    whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste, 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  tempting  to  the  eyes, 
Flowers  whose  wild  odors  breathe  but  agonies, 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison;   such  the  plants, 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  Passion  flies 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

Oh  Love  !   no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art  — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 
And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  image  given, 
As  haunts  the  unquench'd  soul  —  parch'd  —  wearied  — 
wrung  —  and  riven. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased, 
And  fevers  into  false  creation;  — where, 


Il8  POETRY  OF  BYRON, 

Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath  seized? 
In  him  alone.     Can  Nature  show  so  fair? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 
The  unreach'd  Paradise  of  our  despair, 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again  ? 

Who  loves,  raves —  't  is  youth's  frenzy  —  but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still :   as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such;   yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  from -the  oft-sown  winds; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun, 
Seems   ever   near   the    prize  —  wealthiest    when  most 
undone. 

We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away  — 
Sick  —  sick;  unfound  the  boon  —  unslaked  the  thirst, 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first  — 
But  all  too  late,  —  so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice —  't  is  the  same, 
Each  idle  —  and  all  ill  —  and  none  the  worst  — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name, 
And  Death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame. 


SONNET  ON  CI11LLON.  119 


SONNET   ON  CH1LLON. 

ETERNAL  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty  !   thou  art, 

For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd  — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  't  was  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold -pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard  !  —  May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


BONNIVARD    AND  HIS   BROTHERS. 
(PRISONER  OF  CHILLON,  Stanzas  6-8.) 

LAKE  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthralls: 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made  —  and  like  a  living  grave. 


120  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 
And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food; 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care: 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moisten' d  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side; 
But  why  delay  the  truth?  —  he  died. 


BONNIVARD   AND   HIS  BROTHERS.     121 

I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand  —  nor  dead,  — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died  —  and  they  unlock'd  his  chain, 
And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine  — -it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
1  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  — 
They  coldly  laugh'd  —  and  laid  him  there: 
The  flat  and  turflcss  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  nntural  or  inspired  — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 


122  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh,  God !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood:  — 

I  've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I  've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I  've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread; 

But  these  were  horrors  —  this  was  woe 

Unmix'd  with  such — but  sure  and  slow: 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender  — kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind ! 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray  — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur — not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot,  — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence  —  lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less: 

I  listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear  — 


BONNIVARD  ALONE.  123 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear; 

I  knew  't  was  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished; 

I  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound  — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rush'd  to  him:  — I  found  him  not, 

/only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

/  only  lived  —  /  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew; 

The  last  —  the  sole  — the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 


BONNIVARD  ALONE. 
(PRISONER  OF  CHILLON,  Stanzas  9-14.) 

WHAT  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well —  I  never  knew  — 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too: 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none  — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray, 
It  was  not  night  —  it  was  not  day, 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 


124  POETRY  OF  BYRON, 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness —  without  a  place; 

There  were  no  stars  —  no  earth  —  no  time  — 

No  check  —  no  change  —  no  good  —  no  crime  • 

But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 

Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death; 

A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless ! 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain,  — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch 'd,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me ! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more: 


BONNIVARD   ALONE.  125 

It  seem'd  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 

But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 

None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 

And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 

Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 

I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise ; 

For  —  Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile  — 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  't  was  mortal  —  well  I  knew; 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone  — 
Lone  —  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone  —  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 


126  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 
But  so  it  was :  —  my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 
And  my  crush'd  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me : 
No  child  —  no  sire  —  no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 


BONNIVARD   ALONE.  127 

I  saw  them  —  and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile. 

The  only  one  in  view; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly, 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye. 
And  I  felt  troubled  —  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 


128  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save,  — 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count,  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  wherer 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appear'd  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  wntch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn'd  to  dwell. 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are;  —  even  I 
Regain'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


THE   EAST.  129 

THE  EAST. 
(BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS,  Canto  i.  Stanza  i.) 

KNOW  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 

Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime, 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 

Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine; 
Where   the    light    wings    of    Zephyr,  opprest  with  per- 
fume, 

Wax  faint  o'er  the  Gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute: 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  Ocean  is  deepest  in  dye; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine? 
'T  is  the  clime  of  the  East;    't  is  the  land  of  the  Sun  — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done? 
Oh !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they 
tell. 


JOURNEY  AND   DEATH   OF  HASSAN. 
(From  THE  GIAOUR.) 

STERN  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 


130  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Each  arm'd,  as  best  becomes  a  man, 

With  arquebus  and  ataghan; 

The  chief  before,  as  deck'd  for  war, 

Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 

Stain'd  with  the  best  of  Arnaut  blood, 

When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 

And  few  return 'd  to  tell  the  tale 

Of  what  befell  in  Fame's  vale. 

The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 

Were  those  that  once  a  pacha  wore, 

Which  still,  though  gemm'd  and  boss'd  with  gold 

Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 

'T  is  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 

More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side; 

The  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower, 

And,  worse  than  faithless,  for  a  Giaour ! 
»  *  *  *  * 

The  sun's  last  rays  are  on  the  hill, 
And  sparkle  in  the  fountain  rill, 
Whose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear, 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer : 
Here  may  the  loitering  merchant  Greek 
Find  that  repose  't  were  vain  to  seek 
In  cities  lodged  too  near  his  lord, 
And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard  — 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see, 
In  crowds  a  slave,  in  deserts  free; 
And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 

The  bowl  a  Moslem  must  not  drain. 

***** 

The  foremost  Tartar's  in  the  gap, 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap; 


JOUKNEY  AND   DEATH  OF  HASSAN.     131 

The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  the  long  defile : 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak, 
Where  vultures  whet  the  thirsty  beak, 
And  theirs  may  be  a  feast  to-night, 
Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light; 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam, 
And  left  a  channel  bleak  and  bare, 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there : 
Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray, 
By  time,  or  mountain  lightning,  riven 
From  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven; 
For  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  unveil'd? 

*  *  »  *  * 

They  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last : 
"  Bismillah  !  now  the  peril's  past; 
For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
And  there  we'll  prick  our  steeds  amain:  " 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head; 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground ! 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein, 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound; 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again: 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound, 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  unsheath'd,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  their  courser's  harness  leant, 


132  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Half  shelter'd  by  the  steed; 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock, 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen, 
Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 
Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  course, 
Till  fiery  flashes  in  the  van 
Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-clan 
Have  well  secured  the  only  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promised  prey; 
Then  curl'd  his  very  beard  with  ire, 
And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire: 
"Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss, 
I  've  'scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this.'; 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit, 
And  call  his  vassals  to  submit; 
But  Hassan's  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword, 
Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Resign'd  carbine  or  ataghan, 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun ! 1 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near, 
The  lately  ambush'd  foes  appear, 
And,  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 
Some  who  on  battle-charger  prance. 
Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand, 
Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  hand? 
"  'T  is  he !   't  is  he  !  I  know  him  now; 
1  Quarter,  pardon. 


JOURNEY  AND   DEATH  OF  HASSAN.     133 

I  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow; 
I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye 
That  aids  his  envious  treachery; 
I  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb: 
Though  now  array'd  in  Arnaut  garb, 
Apostate  from  his  own  vile  faith, 
It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death : 
"T  is  he  !  well  met  in  any  hour, 
Lost  Leila's  love,  accursed  Giaour!  " 

***** 

With  sabre  shiver'd  to  the  hilt, 
Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt; 
Yet  strain'd  within  the  sever'd  hand 
Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand; 
His  turban  far  behind  him  roll'd, 
And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold; 
His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn, 
And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  morn 
That,  streak'd  with  dusky  red,  portend 
The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end; 
A  stain  on  every  bush  that  bore 
A  fragment  of  his  palampore,1 
His  breast  with  wounds  unnumber'd  riven, 
His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 
Fall'n  Hassan  lies  —  his  unclosed  eye 
Yet  lowering  on  his  enemy, 
As  if  the  hour  that  seal'd  his  fate 
Surviving  left  his  quenchless  hate; 
And  o'er  him  bends  that  foe  with  brow 
As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below. 
1  The  flowered  shawl  generally  worn  by  persons  of  rank. 


134  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

HASSAN'S  MOTHER. 
(From  THE  GIAOUR.) 

THE  browsing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling: 
His  Mother  look'd  from  her  lattice  high, 

She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 
The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye, 

She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling: 
"  'T  is  twilight  —  sure  his  train  is  nigh." 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower, 
But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  tower : 
"  Why  comes  he  not?  his  steeds  are  fleet, 
Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer  heat; 
Why  sends  not  the  Bridegroom  his  promised  gift: 
Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift? 
Oh,  false  reproach  !  yon  Tartar  now 
Has  gain'd  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 
And  warily  the  steep  descends, 
And  now  within  the  valley  bends; 
And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle  bow  — 
How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow? 
Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 

The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  gate, 
But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight: 
His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress, 
But  this  might  be  from  weariness;. 
His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed, 
But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side; 
He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest  — 


THE   GIAOUR'S  LOVE.  135 

Angel  of  death !  't  is  Hassan's  cloven  crest ! 

His  calpac 1  rent  —  his  caftan  red  — 

"  Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  Son  hath  wed: 

Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 

But  this  impurpled  pledge  to  bear. 

Peace  to  the  brave !  whose  blood  is  spilt; 

Woe  to  the  Giaour  !  for  his  the  guilt." 


THE  GIAOUR'S  LOVE. 
(From  THE  GIAOUR.) 

THE  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood, 
Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name; 

But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 

That  boils  in  Etna's  breast  of  flame. 

I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 

Of  ladye-love,  and  beauty's  chain: 

If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein, 

Lips  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 

If  bursting  heart,  and  madd'ning  brain, 

And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel, 

And  all  that  I  have  felt,  and  feel, 

Betoken  love  —  that  love  was  mine, 

And  shown  by  many  a  bitter  sign. 

'Tis  true,  I  could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 

I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 

1  The  solid  cap  or  centre  of  the  head-dress ;  the  shawl  is  wound 
round  it  and  forms  the  turban. 


I36  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

I  die  —  but  first  I  have  possess'd, 
And  come  what  may,  I  have  been  blest. 
Shall  I  the  doom  I  sought  upbraid? 
No  —  reft  of  all,  yet  undismay'd 
But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 
So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide  ! 
For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died: 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wave  • 
Ah  !  had  she  but  an  earthly  grave, 
This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed. 
She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light, 
That,  seen,  became  a  part  of  sight  ; 
And  rose,  where'er  I  turn'd  mine  eye, 
The  Morning-star  of  Memory  ! 


DEATH  OF  SELIM. 
(BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS,  Canto  ii.  Stanzas  22-26.) 

ZULEIKA,  mute  and  motionless, 
.  Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress, 
When,  her  last  hope  forever  gone, 
The  mother  harden'd  into  stone  ; 
All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 
Was  but  a  younger  Niobe. 
But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye, 
Essay 'd  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 


DEATH  OF  SEL1M.  137 

Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 

Far  flash'd  on  high  a  blazing  torch  ! 

Another  —  and  another  —  and  another, — 

"  Oh  !  fly  —  no  more  —  yet  now  my  more  than  brother  !  ' ' 

Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread, 

The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red  ; 

Nor  these  alone  —  for  each  right  hand 

Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 

They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 

With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 

And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 

Stern  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving: 

And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave  — 

Oh  !  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave? 

Dauntless  he  stood  —  "  'Tis  come  —  soon  past — 
One  kiss,  Zuleika  —  'tis  my  last  : 

But  yet  my  band  not  far  from  shore 
May  hear  this  signal,  see  the  flash  ; 
Yet  now  too  few  —  the  attempt  were  rash  : 

No  matter  —  yet  one  effort  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  slept  ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high, 
Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumb'd  her  breast  and  eye  !  — 
"  They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  't  is  but  to  see  me  die  ; 
That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar, 
Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war! 
Farewell,  Zuleika!  —  Sweet!  retire: 


138  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Yet  stay  within  —  here  linger  safe, 

At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. 
Stir  not  —  lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance. 
Fear'st  thou  for  him?  —  may  I  expire 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire  ! 
No  —  though  by  him  that  poison  pour'd: 
No  —  though  again  he  call  me  coward  ! 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel? 
No  —  as  each  crest  save  his  may  feel !  " 
One  bound  he  made,  and  gain'd  the  sand: 

Already  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 

A  gasping  head,  a  quivering  trunk: 
Another  falls  —  but  round  him  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes  ; 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave: 

His  boat  appears  —  not  five  oars'  length  — 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strength  - 

Oh!  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave  ; 
His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 
Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray  ; 
Wet  —  wild  —  unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle  —  now  they  touch  the  land ! 
They  come  —  't  is  but  to  add  to  slaughter  — 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unharm'd  by  steel, 
Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel, 


DEATH  OF  SELIM.  139 

Had  Selim  won,  betray'd,  beset, 

To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met ; 

There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 

And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand  — 

Ah !  wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
That  pause,  that  fatal  gaze  he  took, 

Hath  doom'd  his  death,  or  fix'd  his  chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain, 
How  late  will  Lover's  hope  remain! 
His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray ; 
Behind,  but  close,  his  comrades  lay, 
When  at  the  instant,  hiss'd  the  ball  — 
"  So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fall !  " 
Whose  voice  is  heard?   whose  carbine  rang? 
Whose  bullet  through  the  night-air  sang, 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aim'd  to  err  ? 
'Tis  thine  —  Abdallah's  Murderer! 
The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate, 
The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate : 
Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubbling, 
The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubling  — 
If  aught  his  lips  essay'd  to  groan, 
The  rushing  billows  choked  the  tone ! 

Morn  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away  ; 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there : 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent  ;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear, 
And  fragments  of  each  shiver'd  brand  ; 


14°  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Steps  stamp'd  ;  and  dash'd  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 

May  there  be  mark'd ;   nor  far  remote 

A  broken  torch,  an  oarless  boat  ; 
And,  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep, 

There  lies  a  white  capote ! 
'T  is  rent  in  twain  — one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain: 

But  where  is  he  who  wore? 
Ye  !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep, 
Go,  seek  them  where  the  surges  sweep 
Their  burthen  round  Sigaeum's  steep 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore : 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 
As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow; 
That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife, 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 

Then  levell'd  with  the  wave  — 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall  lie 

Within  a  living  grave? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robb'd  the  meaner  worm; 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 
Had  seen  those  scatter'd  limbs  composed, 

And  mourn'd  above  his  turban-stone, 
That  heart  hath  burst  —  that  eye  was  closed  - 

Yea — closed  before  his  own! 


CORSAIR  LIFE.  141 

CORSAIR  LIFE. 
(CORSAIR,  Canto  i.  Stanza  i.) 

O'ER  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 

Our  thoughts  are  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 

Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 

Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home ! 

These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway  — 

Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 

Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 

From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave ! 

Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave; 

Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease ! 

Whom  slumber  soothes  not  —  pleasure  cannot  please  — 

Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 

And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 

The  exulting  sense  —  the  pulse's  maddening  play, 

That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way? 

That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 

And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight; 

That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal, 

And  where  the  feebler  faint  — can  only  feel  — 

Feel  —  to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 

Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar? 

No  dread  of  death  —  if  with  us  die  our  foes  — 

Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose : 

Come  when  it  will  —  we  snatch  the  life  of  life  — 

When  lost  —  what  recks  it  —  by  disease  or  strife? 

Let  him  who  crawls  enamour'd  of  decay 


14*  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  away; 

Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied  head; 

Ours  —  the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 

While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul, 

Ours  with  one  pang  —  one  bound  —  escapes  control. 

His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave, 

And  they  who  loath'd  his  life  may  gild  his  grave: 

Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 

When  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 

For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 

In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory, 

And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 

When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey, 

And  cry,  remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow 

How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now  ! 


PARTfA'G   OF  COXRAD  AND  ME  DOR  A. 
(CORSAIR,  Canto  i.  Stanzas  14,  15.) 

SHE  rose  —  she  sprung  —  she  clung  to  his  embrace, 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 
Which  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony. 
Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 
In  all  the  wildness  of  dishevell'd  charms; 
Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 
So  full  —  that  feeling  seem'd  almost  unfelt ! 
Hark  —  peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun! 
It  told  't  was  sunset  —  and  he  cursed  that  sun. 


PARTING  OF  CONRAD  AND   MEDORA.     143 

Again  —  again — that  form  he  madly  press'd, 

Which  mutely  clasp'd,  imploringly  caress'd ! 

And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore, 

One  moment  gazed  —  as  if  to  gaze  no  more; 

Felt  — -that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 

Kiss'd  her  cold  forehead — turn'd  —  is  Conrad  gone? 

"  And  is  he  gone?  "  —  on  sudden  solitude 

How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude ! 

"  'T  was  but  an  instant  past  — and  here  he  stood! 

And  now  "  — without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd, 

And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd; 

Big  —  bright  —  and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell; 

But  still  her  lips  refused  to  send  —  "  Farewell !  " 

For  in  that  word  — that  fatal  word  —  howe'er 

We  promise  —  hope  —  believe  —  there  breathes  despair. 

O'er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  face, 

Had  sorrow  fix'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase: 

The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 

Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy, 

Till  —  Oh,  how  far  !  — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him, 

And  then  it  flow'd  —  and  frenzied  seem'd  to  swim 

Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dew'd 

With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renew'd. 

"  He  'sgone  !  "  —  against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 

Convulsed  and  quick  —  then  gently  raised  to  heaven; 

She  look'd  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main; 

The  white  sail  set  —  she  dared  not  look  again; 

But  turn'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate  — 

"  It  is  no  dream  —  and  I  am  desolate  !  " 


144  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

CONRAD^S  RETURN. 
(CORSAIR,  Canto  iii.  Stan/as  19-21.) 

THE  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower, 

And  'midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower : 

He  looks  in  vain  —  't  is  strange  —  and  all  remark, 

Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  dark. 

'T  is  strange  —  of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd, 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguish'd,  only  veil'd. 

With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore, 

And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 

Oh !  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight, 

To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height ! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave, 

He  waits  not  —  looks  not  —  leaps  into  the  wave, 

Strives  through  the  surge,  bestrides  the  beach,  and  high 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reach'd  his  turret  door  —  he  paused  —  no  sound 
Broke  from  within;    and  all  was  night  around. 
He  knock'd,  and  loudly — footstep  nor  reply 
Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh; 
He  knock'd  —  but  faintly —  for  his  trembling  hand 
Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens  —  't  is  a  well-known  face  — 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent  —  twice  his  own  essay'd, 
And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay 'd; 
He  snatch'd  the  lamp  —  its  light  will  answer  all  — 
It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  fall. 


CONRAD'S  RETURN.  145 

He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray  — 
As  soon  could  he  have  linger'd  there  for  day; 
But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridor, 
Another  checkers  o'er  the  shadow'd  floor; 
His  steps  the  chamber  gain  —  his  eyes  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believed  not  —  yet  foretold  ! 

He  turn'd  not  —  spoke  not  —  sunk  not  —  fix'd  his  look, 

And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook: 

He  gazed  —  how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 

And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain ! 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair, 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there; 

And  the  cold  flowers  her  colder  hand  contain'd, 

In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 

As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep, 

And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep : 

The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow, 

And  veil'd  —  thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'd  below — , 

Oh  !  o'er  the  eye  Death  most  exerts  his  might, 

And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ! 

Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse, 

But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips  — 

Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forbore  to  smile, 

And  wish'd  repose  —  but  only  for  a  while; 

But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress, 

Long  —  fair  —  but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness, 

Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 

Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind; 

These  —  and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier  — 

But  she  is  nothing  —  wherefore  is  he  here  ? 


146  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

He  ask'd  no  question  —  all  were  answer'd  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  still  —  marble  brow. 
It  ~.vas  enough  — she  died  —  what  reck'd  it  how? 


ALP  A.VD  FRANCESCA. 
(SiEGE  OF  CORINTH,  Stanzas  16-21.) 

STILL  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused, 

And  woo'd  the  freshness  Night  diffused. 

There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea, 

Which  changeless  rolls  eternally; 

So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood, 

Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a  rood; 

And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 

Heedless  if  she  come  or  go : 

Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay, 

On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 

The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare, 

And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there; 

And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 

On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago : 

A  smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 

Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

He  wander'd  on,  along  the  beach, 
Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 
Of  the  leaguer'd  wall;   but  they  saw  him  not, 
Or  how  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot? 
Did  traitors  lurk  in  the  Christians'  hold? 


ALP  AND   FXANCESCA.  147 

Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd  cold? 

I  know  not,  in  sooth;    but  from  yonder  wall 

There  flash'd  no  fire,  and  there  hiss'd  no  ball, 

Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown, 

That  flank'd  the  seaward  gate  of  the  town; 

Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 

The  sullen  words  of  the  sentinel, 

As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 

Clank 'd  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro; 

And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival, 

Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb; 

They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him ! 

From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh; 

And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull, 

As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew 

dull, 

As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead, 
When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they  fed; 
So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 
With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  repast. 
And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  roll'd  on  the  sand, 
The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band: 
Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear, 
And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair, 
All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 
The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 
The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 
But  close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 
There  sate  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf. 


1 48  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away, 
Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey; 
But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 
Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

Alp  turn'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight: 

Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight; 

But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying, 

Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying, 

Scorch 'd  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain, 

Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain. 

There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour, 

Whate'er  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may  lower; 

For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds, 

And  Honor's  eye  on  daring  deeds ! 

But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 

O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead, 

And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air, 

Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there; 

All  regarding  man  as  their  prey, 

All  rejoicing  in  his  decay. 

There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 

Fashion'd  by  long  forgotten  hands; 

Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone, 

Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown ! 

Out  upon  Time  !   it  will  leave  no  more 

Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before ! 

Out  upon  Time !  who  forever  will  leave 

But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 

O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must  be: 


ALP  AND  FRANCESCA.  149 

What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see; 
Remnants  of  things  that  have  past  away, 
Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatures  of  clay ! 

He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base, 

And  past  his  hand  athwart  his  face; 

Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 

Declining  was  his  attitude; 

His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 

Fever'd,  throbbing,  and  opprest; 

And  o'er  his  brow,  so  downward  bent, 

Oft  his  beating  fingers  went, 

Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 

Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key, 

Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken 

By  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 

There  he  sate  all  heavily, 

As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh. 

Was  it  the  wind,  through  some  hollow  stone, 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan? 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look'd  on  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be; 

He  look'd  on  the  long  grass  —  it  waved  not  a  blade; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey'd? 

He  look'd  to  the  banners  —  each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithseron's  hill, 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek; 

What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak? 

He  turn'd  to  the  left  —  is  he  sure  of  sight? 

There  sate  a  lady,  youthful  and  bright ! 


15°  POETRY  OF  BYRON, 

He  started  up  with  more  of  fear 

Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near. 

"  God  of  my  fathers  !  what  is  here? 

Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 

So  near  a  hostile  armament?  " 

His  trembling  hands  refused  to  sign 

The  cross  he  deem'd  no  more  divine: 

He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 

But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 

He  gazed,  he  saw:   he  knew  the  face 

Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace; 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 

The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride ! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek, 

But  mellow'd  with  a  tenderer  streak: 

Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  fled? 

Gone  was  the  smile  that  enliven'd  their  red. 

The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view, 

Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue; 

But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 

And  its  glance,  though  clear,  was  chill. 

Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining, 

Naught  conceal'd  her  bosom  shining; 

Through  the  parting  of  her  hair, 

Floating  darkly  downward  there, 

Her  rounded  arm  show'd  white  and  bare: 

And  ere  yet  she  made  reply, 

Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high; 

It  was  so  wan,  and  transparent  of  hue, 

You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  through. 


ALP  AND   FKANCESCA.  151 

"  I  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best, 

That  I  may  be  happy,  and  he  may  be  blest. 

I  have  pass'd  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall; 

Sought  thee  in  safety  through  foes  and  all. 

'T  is  said  the  lion  will  turn  and  flee 

From  a  maid  in  the  pride  of  her  purity; 

And  the  Power  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 

Thus  from  the  tyrant  of  the  wood, 

Hath  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  well 

From  the  hands  of  the  leaguering  infidel. 

I  come  —  and  if  I  come  in  vain, 

Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 

In  falling  away  from  thy  father's  creed : 

But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sign 

The  sign  of  the  cross,  and  forever  be  mine; 

Wring  the  black  drop  from  thy  heart, 

And  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part." 

"  And  where  should  our  bridal  couch  be  spread? 

In  the  midst  of  the  dying  and  the  dead? 

For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  flame 

The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name. 

None,  save  thou  and  thine,  I'  ve  sworn, 

Shall  be  left  upon  the  morn : 

But  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  spot, 

Where  our  hands  shall  be  join'd,  and  our  sorrow  forgot. 

There  thou  yet  shall  be  my  bride, 

When  once  again  P  ve  quelled  the  pride 

Of  Venice;   and  her  hated  race 

Have  felt  the  arm  they  would  debase 


152  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Scourge  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  those 
Whom  vice  and  envy  made  my  foes." 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own  — 

Light  was  the  touch,  but  it  thrill'd  to  the  bone, 

And  shot  a  chillness  to  his  heart, 

Which  fix'd  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 

Though  slight,  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold, 

He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold; 

But  never  did  clasp  of  one  so  dear 

Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 

As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white, 

Froze  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that  night. 

The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 

And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone, 

As  he  look'd  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue, 

So  deeply  changed  from  what  he  knew : 

Fair  but  faint  —  without  the  ray 

Of  mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 

Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day; 

And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 

And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 

And  there  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's  swell, 

And  there  seem'd  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to  dwell. 

Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were  fixt, 

And  the  glance  that  it  gave  was  wild  and  unmixt 

With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem; 

Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream; 

Like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 

Stirr'd  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air, 

So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp's  fitful  light, 


ALF  AND  FRANCESCA.  153 

Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight; 

As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come  down 

From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  frown; 

Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro, 

As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 

"If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 

Thus  much,  then,  for  the  love  of  heaven  — 

Again  I  say  —  that  turban  tear 

From  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 

Thine  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 

Or  thou  art  lost;   and  never  shall  see  — 

Not  earth  —  that  's  past  —  but  heaven  or  me. 

If  this  thou  dost  accord,  ^albeit 

A  heavy  doom  't  is  thine  to  meet, 

That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 

And  mercy's  gate  may  receive  thee  within: 

But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 

The  curse  of  Him  thou  didst  forsake; 

And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 

Its  love  forever  shut  from  thee. 

There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon  — 

'T  is  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon  — 

If,  by  the  time  its  vapory  sail 

Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 

Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 

Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged; 

Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 

Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  look'd  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  higb 
The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky; 


154  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  turn'd  aside 

By  deep  interminable  pride. 

This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 

Roll'd  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 

He  sue  for  mercy  !     He  dismay 'd 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid ! 

He,  wrong'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave ! 

No  —  though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst9 

And  charged  to  crush  him  —  let  it  burst ! 

He  look'd  upon  it  earnestly, 

Without  an  accent  of  reply; 

He  watch'd  it  passing;   it  is  flown; 

Full  on  his  eye  the  clear  moon  shone, 

And  thus  he  spake  —  "  Whate'er  my  fate, 

I  am  no  changeling  —  't  is  too  late : 

The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  quiver, 

Then  rise  again;    the  tree  must  shiver. 

What  Venice  made  me,  I  must  be, 

Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee: 

But  thou  art  safe:   oh,  fly  with  me !  " 

He  turn'd,  but  she  is  gone  ! 

Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 

Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air? 

He  saw  not  —  he  knew  not  —  but  nothing  is  there. 


THE  ASSAULT.  155 

THE  ASSAULT. 
(SIEGE  OF  CORINTH,  Stanzas  22-27.) 

LIGHTLY  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  gray, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 

And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn, 

And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they  're  borne, 

And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum, 

And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  "They  come  !  they  come  !  " 

The  horsetails  are  pluck'd   from  the  ground,  and  the 

sword 

From  its  sheath;  and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the  word. 
Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 
That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain, 
When  he  breaks  from  the  town;  and  none  escape, 
Aged  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 
Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass. 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein; 
Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit : 
The  spears  are  uplifted;  the  matches  are  lit; 
The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar, 
And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before: 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar; 


156  POETRY  OF  BYROA'. 

Alp  at  their  head;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 

So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar; 

The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post; 

The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 

When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on; 

Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one  — 

A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 

A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 

God  and  the  prophet  —  Alia  Hu  ! 

Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo  ! 

"There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scale; 

And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  fail  ? 

He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 

His  heart's  dearest  wish;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have !  " 

Thus  utter'd  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier; 

The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 

And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire :  — 

Silence  —  hark  to  the  signal  —  fire  ! 

»  *  *  *  *  » 

The  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun, 
And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 
But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 
Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 
Desperate  groups  of  twelve  or  ten 
Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again  — 
With  banded  backs  against  the  wall 
Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man  —  his  hairs  were  white, 
But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might : 
So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray, 


THE   ASSAULT.  i$7 

The  dead  before  him,  on  that  day, 

In  a  semicircle  lay; 

Still  he  combated  unwounded, 

Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 

Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 

Lurk'd  beneath  his  corslet  bright; 

But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 

Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before : 

Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb, 

Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him. 

Still  the  old  man  stood  erect, 

And  Alp's  career  a  moment  check'd. 

"  Yield  thee,  Minotti;  quarter  take, 

For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 

"Never,  renegado,  never! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  forever." 

"  Francesca !  — Oh,  my  promised  bride  ! 

Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride  ?  ' ' 

"  She  is  safe."  —  "  Where?  where?  "  —  "  In  heaven; 

From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven  — 

Far  from  thee,  and  undefiled." 

Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled, 

As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 

Before  his  words,  as  with  a  blow. 

"  Oh  God  !  when  died  she?  "  —  "  Yesternight  — 

Nor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight : 

None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 

Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee  — 

Come  on  !  " — That  challenge  is  in  vain  — 


158  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Alp  's  already  with  the  slain ! 

While  Minotti's  words  were  wreaking 

More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found 

Had  the  time  allow'd  to  wound, 

From  within  the  neighboring  porch 

Of  a  long  defended  church, 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  the  failing  fight  renew, 

The  sharp  shot  dash'd  Alp  to  the  ground. 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 

That  crash'd  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel, 

Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell. 


PA  Rf SIN  A. 
(PARISINA,  Stanzas  i,  2.) 

IT  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 

The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard; 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word; 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 
Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 
Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 
And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 
And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 
And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue, 
And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 
As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 


THE  LAST  OF  EZZELIN.  159 

But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 

That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall, 

And  it  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light 

That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night; 

And  if  she  sits  in  Este's  bower, 

'T  is  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower  — 

She  listens — but  not  for  the  nightingale  — 

Though  her  ear  expects  as  soft  a  tale. 

There  glides  a  step  through  the  foliage  thick, 

And  her  cheek  grows  pale — and  her  heart  beats  quick. 

There  whispers  a  voice  through  the  rustling  leaves, 

And  her  blush  returns,  and  her  bosom  heaves : 

A  moment  more  —  and  they  shall  meet  — 

'T  is  past  —  her  lover  's  at  her  feet. 


THE  LAST  OF  EZZELIN. 
(LARA,  Canto  ii.  Stanza  24.) 

UPON  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 

A  Serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale, 

When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  morn, 

And  nearly  veil'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn  — 

A  Serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood, 

And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children's  food, 

Past  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 

Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain : 

He  heard  a  tramp —  a  horse  and  horseman  broke 

From  out  the  wood  —  before  him  was  a  cloak 


160  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Wrapt  round  some  burthen  at  his  saddle-bow, 
Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 
Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time, 
And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime, 
Himself  unheeded  watch'd  the  stranger's  course, 
Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse, 
And  lifting  thence  the  burthen  which  he  bore, 
Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore, 
Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  turn'd,  and  seem'd  to 

watch, 

And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 
And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  flow'd, 
As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd. 
At  once  he  started  —  stoop'd;  around  him  strown 
The  winter  floods  had  scatter 'd  heaps  of  stone; 
Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gather'd  there, 
And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 
Meantime  the  Serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 
Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean; 
He  caught  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast, 
And  something  glitter'd  starlike  on  the  vest; 
But  ere  he  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 
A  massy  fragment  smote  it,  and  it  sunk: 
It  rose  again,  but  indistinct  to  view, 
And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue, 
Then  deeply  disappear'd:  the  horseman  gazed 
Till  ebb'd  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised; 
Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steed, 
And  instant  spurr'd  him  into  panting  speed. 
His  face  was  mask'd —  the  features  of  the  dead, 
If  dead  it  were,  escaped  the  observer's  dread; 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE.  161 

But  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  bore, 
Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore, 
And  such  't  is  known  Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  morn. 


MAZEPPA  'S  RIDE. 
(MAZEPPA,  Stanzas  9-17.) 

"  BRING  forth  the  horse  "  !  —  the  horse  was  brought; 

In  truth  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled  — 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led: 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash  — 
Away  !  —  away  !  —  and  on  we  dash  !  — 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

Away !  —  away  !  —  My  breath  was  gone  — 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on : 
'T  was  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 
And  on  he  foam'd  —  away !  ••—  away !  — 


1 62  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes, 
Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 
Which  on  the  win<l_came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout : 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrench'd  my  head, 
And  snapt  the  cord,  which  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howl'd  back  my  curse;  but  'midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed, 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed: 
It  vexes  me  —  for  I  would  fain 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 
I  paid  it  well  in  after  days : 
There  is  not  of  that  castle  gate, 
Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis'  weight, 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left; 
Nor  of  its  fields  a  blade  of  grass, 
Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall, 
Where  stood  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall; 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass, 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  that  fortress  was: 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze, 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft, 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorch'd  and  blackening  roof, 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  launch'd  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash, 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE.  163 

That  one  day  I  should  come  again, 
With  twice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 

The  Count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 
They  play'd  me  then  a  bitter  prank, 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide, 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank: 
At  length  I  play'd  them  one  as  frank  — 
For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even  — 

And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 

There  never  yet  was  human  power 
Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven, 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 

Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 

All  human  dwellings  left  behind  ; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  checker'd  with  the  northern  light : 
Town  —  village  —  none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black  ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 
No  trace  of  man.     The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  march'd  o'er  ; 
And  where  the  Spahi's  hoof  hath  trod, 

The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod :  — 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  gray, 


164  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  a  low  breeze  crept  moaning  by  — 

I  could  have  answer'd  with  a  sigh  — 
But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away  — 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray  ; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane  ; 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career : 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed, 
He  must  have  slacken'd  in  his  speed  ; 
But  no  —  my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might, 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became  : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 

Increased  his  fury  and  affright : 
I  tried  my  voice,  —  't  was  faint  and  low, 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang  : 
Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er  j 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

We  near'd  the  wild  wood  —  't  was  so  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side  ; 
'Twas  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees, 
That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 
Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste, 
And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste,  — 


MAZEPPA'S  I? IDE.  165 

But  these  were  few,  and  far  between 

Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green, 

Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 

Ere  strown  by  those  autumnal  eves 

That  nipt  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 

Discolor'd  with  a  lifeless  red, 

Which  stands  thereon  like  stiffen'd  gore 

Upon  the  slain  when  battle  's  o'er, 

And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 

Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head, 

So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 

May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek  : 

'Twas  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 

And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 

The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine  ; 

But  far  apart  —  and  well  it  were, 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine  — 

The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarr'd  with  cold  — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind  ; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track, 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back, 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire: 
Where'er  we  flew  they  follow'd  on, 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun  ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 
At  day-break  winding  through  the  wood, 


1 66  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
Oh  !  how  I  wish'd  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 
And  perish  —  if  it  must  be  so  — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe. 
When  first  my  courser's  race  begun, 
I  wish'd  the  goal  already  won  ; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt !  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain-roe ; 
Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bewilder'd  with  the  dazzling  blast, 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  past  — 
Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild  ; 
All  furious  as  a  favor'd  child 
Balk'd  of  its  wish  ;  or  fiercer  still  — 
A  woman  piqued  —  who  has  her  will. 

The  wood  was  past.;  'twas  more  than  noon. 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June  ; 
Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold  — 
Prolong'd  endurance  tames  the  bold; 
And  I  was  then  not  what  I  seem, 
But  headlong  as  a  wintry  stream, 
And  wore  my  feelings  out  before 
I  well  could  count  their  causes  o'er : 
And  what  with  fury,  fear,  and  wrath, 
The  tortures  which  beset  my  path, 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE.  ?<>7 

Cold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,  distress, 

Thus  bound  in  nature's  nakedness  ; 

Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood 

When  stirr'd  beyond  its  calmer  mood, 

And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 

The  rattle-snake's  in  act  to  strike, 

What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk? 

The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  rolPd  round, 

I  seem'd  to  sink  upon  the  ground  ; 

But  err'd,  for  I  was  fastly  bound. 

My  heart  turn'd  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore. 

And  throbb'd  awhile,  then  beat  no  more  ; 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel ; 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 

And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes, 

Which  saw  no  farther :  he  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake  ;  but  could  not  make 

My  senses  climb  up  from  below  : 

I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea, 

When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee, 

At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 

And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 

My  undulating  life  was  as 

The  fancied  lights  that  flitting  pass 

Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 

Fever  begins  upon  the  brain; 

But  soon  it  pass'd,  with  little  pain, 


*68  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

But  a  confusion  worse  than  such: 
I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much, 
Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again; 
And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust : 
No  matter;  I  have  bared  my  brow 
Full  in  Death's  face  — before  — and  now. 

My  blood  reflow'd,  though  thick  and  chill; 

My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill; 
Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh; 
There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky, 
Studded  with  stars;  —  it  is  no  dream; 
The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream ! 
The  bright  broad  river's  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 
And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 
To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 
The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance, 
And  with  a  temporary  strength 

My  stiffen'd  limbs  were  rebaptized. 
My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 
And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 
And  onward  we  advance  ! 
We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 

A  haven  I  but  little  prized, 
For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 
And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 
How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 
I  could  not  tell;  I  scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE.  169 

With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 
And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 

The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 
Up  the  repelling  bank. 

We  gain  the  top :  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 

And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems, 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

Or  scatter'd  spot  of  dusky  green, 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light, 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  nought  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star; 
Not  even  an  ignis-fatuus  rose 
To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes: 

That  very  cheat  had  cheer'd  me  then ! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still, 
Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 

Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

Onward  we  went  —  but  slack  and  slow 
His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent, 

The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 
All  feebly  foaming  went. 

A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 

To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour; 


170  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  tameness  nought  avail'd, 
My  limbs  were  bound;  my  force  had  fail'd, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  effort  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied  — 

But  still  it  was  in  vain; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er, 

Which  but  prolong'd  their  pain. 
The  dizzy  race  seem'd  almost  run; 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun  — 

How  slow,  alas  !  he  came  ! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day; 
How  heavily  it  roll'd  away  — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars, 
And  call'd  the  radiance  from  their  cars, 
And  fill'd  the  earth,  from  his  deep  thrones 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

Up  rose  the  sun;  the  mists  were  curl'd 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around — behind  —  before; 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river?     Man  nor  brute, 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil; 
No  sign  of  travel  —  none  of  toil; 
The  very  air  was  mute; 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE. 

And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.     Many  a  werst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  stagger'd  on; 
And  still  we  were  —  or  seem'd  —  alone: 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs? 
No,  no !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop;  I  see  them  come ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance ! 

I  strove  to  cry  —  my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide? 
A  thousand  horse  —  and  none  to  ride  ! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils  —  never  stretch'd  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 
And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  spur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet; 
The  sight  re-nerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answer'd,  and  then  fell; 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 


172  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  reeking  limbs  immovable, 

His  first  ani  last  career  is  done. 
On  came  the  troop  —  they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong : 
They  stop  —  they  start  —  they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there, 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seem'd  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide; 
They  snort  —  they  foam  —  neigh  —  swerve  aside 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye.  — 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 
Link'd  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me  —  and  there  we  lay 

The  dying  on  the  dead ! 
And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 
I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round, 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me. 

I  know  no  more  —  my  latest  dream 
Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 
Which  fix'd  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE.  173 

And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam, 
And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 
And  then  subsiding  back  to  death, 
And  then  again  a  little  breath, 
A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense, 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sparks  that  cross'd  my  brain  — 
A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 

A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 

I  woke  —  Where  was  I  ?  —  Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me? 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  ? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  ? 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance? 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 

A  slender  girl,  long-haired,  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free : 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be,  — 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast: 


174  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unseal 'd, 
She  smiled  —  and  I  essay'd  to  speak, 

But  failed — and  she  approach'd,  and  made 

With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smooth'd  the  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread, 

And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers  —  ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet ! 
Even  music  follow'd  her  light  feet;  — 

But  those  she  call'd  were  not  awake, 
And  she  went  forth;  but,  ere  she  past, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast, 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say, 
That  I  had  nought  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call, 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return:  — while  she  was  gone, 
Methought  I  felt  too  much  alone. 

She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire  — 
What  need  of  more? —  I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest. 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain  — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut  — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again  — 
Me  — one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign  ! 


THE  SHIPWRECK.  175 

THE  STREAMLET  FROM  THE   CLIFF. 
(THE  ISLAND,  Canto  iii.  Stanza  3.) 

A  LITTLE  stream  came  tumbling  from  the  height, 

And  straggling  into  ocean  as  it  might, 

Its  bounding  crystal  frolick'd  in  the  ray, 

And  gush'd  from  cliff  to  crag  with  saltless  spray; 

Close  on  the  wild,  wide  ocean,  yet  as  pure 

And  fresh  as  innocence,  and  more  secure, 

Its  silver  torrent  glitter'd  o'er  the  deep, 

As  the  shy  chamois'  eye  o'erlcoks  the  steep, 

While  far  below  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 

Of  ocean's  alpine  azure  rose  and  fell. 


THE  SHIPWRECK. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  ii.  Stanzas  49-53.) 

'T  WAS  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 
Over  the  waste  of  waters;    like  a  veil, 

Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the  frown 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  mask'd  but  to  assail. 

Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown, 
And  grimly  darkled  o'er  the  faces  pale, 

And  the  dim  desolate  deep :   twelve  days  had  Fear 

Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft, 
With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 


176  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

A  sort  of  thing  at  which  one  would  have  laugh'd, 
If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be, 

Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have  quaff'd, 
And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee, 

Half  epileptical,  and  half  hysterical:  — 

Their  preservation  would  have  been  a  miracle. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hencoops,  spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast  loose, 

That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling  tars, 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great  use : 

There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few  stars, 
The  boats  put  off  o'ercrowded  with  their  crews; 

She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port, 

And,  going  down  head  foremost  —  sunk,  in  short. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell  — 

Then  shriek'd  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave,  • 

Then  some  leap'd  overboard  with  dreadful  yell, 
As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave; 

And  the  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like  a  hell, 

And  down  she  suck'd  with  her  the  whirling  wave, 

Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 

And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rush'd, 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 

Of  echoing  thunder;    and  then  all  was  hush'd, 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 

Of  billows;   but  at  intervals  there  gush'd, 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 

A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 

Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agonv. 


HAID&E.  177 

HAID£E. 

(DON  JUAN,  Canto  ii.  Stanzas  m-iiJS.) 

How  long  in  his  damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 
He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him, 

And  Time  had  nothing  more  of  night  nor  day 
For  his  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim; 

And  how  this  heavy  faintness  past  away 

He  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and  limb, 

And  tingling  vein  seem'd  throbbing  back  to  life, 

For  Death,  though  vanquish'd,  still  retired  with  strife. 

His  eyes  he  open'd,  shut,  again  unclosed, 
For  all  was  doubt  and  dizziness;   he  thought 

He  still  was  in  the  boat,  and  had  but  dozed, 
And  felt  again  with  his  despair  o'erwrought, 

And  wish'd  it  death  in  which  he  had  reposed, 

And  then  once  more  his  feelings  back  were  brought, 

And  slowly  by  his  swimming  eyes  was  seen 

A  lovely  female  face  of  seventeen. 

'T  was  bending  close  o'er  his,  and  the  small  mouth 
Seem'd  almost  prying  into  his  for  breath; 

And,  chafing  him,  the  soft  warm  hand  of  youth 
Recall'd  his  answering  spirits  back  from  death; 

And  bathing  his  chill  temples,  tried  to  soothe 
Each  pulse  to  animation,  till  beneath 

Its  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a  sigh 

To  these  kind  efforts  made  a  low  reply. 


I78  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Then  was  the  cordial  pour'd,  and  mantle  flung 
Around  his  scarce-clad  limbs;    and  the  fair  arm 

Raised  higher  the  faint  head  which  o'er  it  hung; 
And  her  transparent  cheek,  all  pure  and  warm, 

Pillow'd  his  death-like  forehead;    then  she  wrung 
His  dewy  curls,  long  drench'd  by  every  storm; 

And  watch'd  with  eagerness  each  throb  that  drew 

A  sigh  from  his  heaved  bosom  —  and  hers,  too. 

And  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave, 
The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant,  — one 

Young,  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less  grave, 
And  more  robust  of  figure,  — then  begun 

To  kindle  fire,  and  as  the  new  flames  gave 

Light  to  the  rocks  that  roof'd  them,  which  the  sun 

Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 

She  was,  appcar'd  distinct,  and  tall,  and  fair. 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 
That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair, 

Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  roll'd 
In  braids  behind;    and  though  her  stature  were 

Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould, 

They  nearly  reach'd  her  heel;    and  in  her  air 

There  was  a  something  which  bespoke  command, 

As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 

Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn;   but  her  eyes 

Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue, 

Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadows  lies 
Deepest  attraction;   for  when  to  the  view 


HAID&E  AGAIN.  179 

Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies, 
Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew; 
'T  is  as  the  snake  late  coil'd,  who  pours  his  length, 
And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength. 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheek's  pure  dye 

Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun; 
Short  upper  lip  —  sweet  lips  !  that  make  us  sigh 

Ever  to  have  seen  such;   for  she  was  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors,  when  all  's  done  — 
I  've  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real, 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 


HA  WEE  AGAIN. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  70-75.) 

OF  all  the  dresses  I  select  Haidee's: 

She  wore  two  jelicks  —  one  was  of  pale  yellow; 
Of  azure,  pink,  and  white  was  her  chemise  — 

'Neath  which  her  brer.st  heaved  like  a  little  billow; 
With  buttons  form'd  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas, 

All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jelick's  fellow, 
And  the  striped  white  gauze  baracan  that  bound  her 
Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon  flow'd  round  her. 

One  large  gold  bracelet  clasp 'd  each  lovely  arm, 
Lockless — so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 

That  the  hand  stretch'd  and  shut  it  without  harm, 
The  limb  which  it  adorn'd  its  only  mould; 


180  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

So  beautiful  — its  very  shape  would  charm, 
And  clinging  as  if  loath  to  lose  its  hold, 
The  purest  ore  enclosed  the  whitest  skin 
That  e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in. 

Around,  as  princess  of  her  father's  land, 
A  like  gold  bar  above  her  instep  roll'd 

Announced  her  rank;    twelve  rings  were  on  her  hand; 
Her  hair  was  starr'd  with  gems;   her  veil's  fine  fold 

Below  her  breast  was  fasten'd  with  a  band 

Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce  be  told; 

Her  orange  silk  full  Turkish  trousers  furl'd 

About  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 

Her  hair's  long  auburn  waves  down  to  her  heel 
Flow'd  like  an  Alpine  torrent  which  the  sun 

Dyes  with  his  morning  light,  —  and  would  conceal 
Her  person  if  allow'd  at  large  to  run, 

And  still  they  seem  resentfully  to  feel 

The  silken  fillet's  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 

Their  bonds  whene'er  some  Zephyr  caught  began 

To  offer  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 

Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life, 
The  very  air  seem'd  lighter  from  her  eyes, 

They  were  so  soft  and  beautiful,  and  rife 
With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies, 

And  pure  as  Psyche  ere  she  grew  a  wife  — 
Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties; 

Her  overpowering  presence  made  you  feel 

It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 


AURORA   RABY.  181 

Her  eyelashes,  thongh  dark  as  night,  were  tinged 
(It  is  the  country's  custom),  but  in  vain; 

For  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly  fringed, 
The  glossy  rebels  mock'd  the  jetty  stain, 

And  in  their  native  beauty  stood  avenged: 

Her  nails  were  touch'd  with  henna;  but  again 

The  power  of  art  was  turn'd  to  nothing,  for 

They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 


AURORA   RABY. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  xv.  Stanzas  43-47.) 

AND  then  there  was  —  but  why  should  I  go  on, 
Unless  the  ladies  should  go  off? —  there  was 

Indeed  a  certain  fair  and  fairy  one, 

Of  the  best  class,  and  better  than  her  class,  — 

Aurora  Raby,  a  young  star  who  shone 

O'er  life,  too  sweet  an  image  for  such  glass, 

A  lovely  being,  scarcely  form'd  or  moulded, 

A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded; 

Rich,  noble,  but  an  orphan :  left  an  only 

Child  to  the  care  of  guardians  good  and  kind; 

But  still  her  aspect  had  an  air  so  lonely ! 

Blood  is  not  water;   and  where  shall  we  find 

Feelings  of  youth  like  those  which  overthrown  lie 
By  death,  when  we  are  left,  alas !  behind, 

To  feel,  in  friendless  palaces,  a  home 

Is  wanting,  and  our  best  ties  in  the  tomb? 


182  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Early  in  years,  and  yet  more  infantine 
In  figure,  she  had  something  of  sublime 

In  eyes  which  sadly  shone,  as  seraphs'  shine. 
All  youth  —  but  with  an  aspect  beyond  time; 

Radiant  and  grave  —  as  pitying  man's  decline; 
Mournful  —  but  mournful  of  another's  crime, 

She  look'd  as  if  she  sate  by  Eden's  door, 

And  grieved  for  those  who  could  return  no  more. 

She  was  a  Catholic,  too,  sincere,  austere, 
As  far  as  her  own  gentle  heart  allow'd, 

And  deem'd  that  fallen  worship  far  more  dear 

Perhaps  because  't  was  fall'n:  her  sires  were  proud 

Of  deeds  and  days  when  they  had  fill'd  the  ear 
Of  nations,  and  had  never  bent  or  bow'd 

To  novel  power;  and  as  she  was  the' last, 

She  held  their  old  faith  and  old  feelings  fast. 

She  gazed  upon  a  world  she  scarcely  knew, 
As  seeking  not  to  know  it;  silent,  lone, 

As  grows  a  flower,  thus  quietly  she  grew, 
And  kept  her  heart  serene  within  its  zone. 

There  was  awe  in  the  homage  which  she  drew; 
Her  spirit  seem'd  as  seated  on  a  throne 

Apart  from  the  surrounding  world,  and  strong 

In  its  own  strength  —  most  strange  in  one  so  young ! 


III. 

DRAMATIC 


MANFRED  AND   THE  SEVEN  SPIRITS.    185 

MANFRED  AND    THE   SEVEN  SPIRITS. 
(MANFRED,  Act  i.  Scene  i.) 

MANFRED  alone .  —  Scene,  a  Gothic  Gallery.  —  Time, 
Midnight. 

Man.     THE  lamp  must  be  replenish'd,  but  even  then 
It  will  not  burn  so  long  as  I  must  watch: 
My  slumbers  —  if  I  slumber  —  are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not :  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within;  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 
But  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the  wise; 
Sorrow  is  knowledge :  they  who  know  the  most 
Must  mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the  fatal  truth, 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  not  that  of  Life. 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essay'd,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself  — 
But  they  avail  not :  I  have  done  men  good, 
And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men  — 
But  this  avail'd  not:  I  have  had  my  foes, 
And  none  have  baffled,  many  fallen  before  me  — 
But  this  avail'd  not:  Good,  or  evil,  life, 
Powers,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beings, 
Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 
Since  that  all-nameless  hour.     I  have  no  dread, 


1 86  POETRY  OF  BY  ROM. 

And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear, 
Nor  fluttering  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or  wishes, 
Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth.  — 
Now  to  my  task.  — 

Mysterious  Agency ! 
Ye  spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe  ! 
Whom  I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  in  light  — 
Ye,  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwell 
In  subtler  essence  —  ye,  to  whom  the  tops 
Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts, 
And  earth's  and  ocean's  caves  familiar  things  — 
I  call  upon  ye  by  the  written  charm 

Which  gives  me  power  upon  you Rise  !  appear  ! 

[.-/  pause 

They  come  not  yet.  — Now  by  the  voice  of  him 
Who  is  the  first  among  you  —  by  this  sign, 
Which  makes  you  tremble  —  by  the  claims  of  him 

Who  is  undying,  —  Rise  !  appear  ! Appear  ! 

[A  pause. 

If  it  be  so.  —  Spirits  of  earth  and  air, 
Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me :  by  a  power, 
Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-spell, 
Which  had  its  birthplace  in  a  star  condemn'd, 
The  burning  wreck  of  a  demolish'd  world, 
A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space; 
By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  soul, 
The  thought  which  is  within  me  and  around  me, 
I  do  compel  ye  to  my  will.  —  Appear  ! 

[A  star  is  seen  at  the  darker  end  of  the  gallery  :  it  is 
stationary  ;  and  a  voice  is  heard  singing. 


MANFRED  AND  THE  SEVEN  SPIRITS.     187 


FIRST  SPIRIT. 

Mortal !  to  thy  bidding  bow'd, 
From  my  mansion  in  the  cloud, 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 
And  the  summer's  sunset  gilds 
With  the  azure  and  vermilion, 
Which  is  mix'd  for  my  pavilion  ; 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden, 
On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden  ; 
To  thine  adjuration  bow'd, 
Mortal  —  be  thy  wish  avow'd! 

Voice  of  the  SECOND  SPIRIT. 

Mont  Blanc  is  the  Monarch  of  mountains  ; 

They  crown 'd  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  Avalanche  in  his  hand  ; 
But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  Glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day  ; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  cavern'd  base  — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  Thou? 


1 88  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 


Voice  of  the  THIRD  SPIRIT. 

In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters, 

Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife, 
Where  the  wind  is  a  stranger, 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life, 
Where  the  Mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells  ; 
Like  the  storm  on  the  surface 

Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells  ; 
O'er  my  calm  Hall  of  Coral 

The  deep  echo  roll'd  — 
To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold ! 


FOURTH  SPIRIT. 

Where  the  slumbering  earthquake 

Lies  pillow'd  on  fire, 
And  the  lakes  of  bitumen 

Rise  boilingly  higher  ; 
Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 

Strike  deep  in  the  earth, 
As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth  ; 
I  have  quitted  my  birthplace, 

Thy  bidding  to  bide  — 
Thy  spell  hath  subdued  me, 

Thy  will  be  my  guide  ! 


MANFRED  AND  THE  SEVEN  SPIRITS.    189 


FIFTH  SPIRIT. 

I  am  the  Rider  of  the  wind, 

The  Stirrer  of  the  storm  ; 
The  hurricane  I  left  behind 

Is  yet  with  lightning  warm  ; 
To  speed  to  thee,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  the  blast : 
The  fleet  I  met  sail'd  well,  and  yet 

'Twill  sink  ere  night  be  past. 

SIXTH  SPIRIT. 

My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light? 

SEVENTH  SPIRIT. 

The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny 
Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me  : 
It  was  a  world  as  fresh  and  fair 
As  e'er  revolved  round  sun  in  air  ; 
Its  course  was  free  and  regular, 
Space  bosom'd  not  a  lovelier  star. 
The  hour  arrived  —  and  it  became 
A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 
A  pathless  comet,  and  a  curse, 
The  menace  of  the  universe  ; 
Still  rolling  on  with  innate  force, 
Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 


190  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

A  bright  deformity  on  high, 

The  monster  of  the  upper  sky ! 

And  thou  !  beneath  its  influence  born  — 

Thou  worm !  whom  I  obey  and  scorn  — 

Forced  by  a  power  (which  is  not  thine, 

And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 

For  this  brief  moment  to  descend, 

Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend 

And  parley  with  a  thing  like  thee  — 

What  wouldst  thou,  Child  of  Clay!  with  me? 

The  SEVEN  SPIRITS. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  night,  mountains,  winds,  thy  star, 
Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  Child  of  Clay ! 

Before  thee  at  thy  quest  their  spirits  are  — 

What  wouldst  thou  with  us,  son  of  mortals  —  say? 

Alan.     Forgetfulness 

First  Spirit.  Of  what  —  of  whom — and  why? 

Man.     Of  that  which  is  within  me;  read  it  there  — 
Ye  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it. 

Spirit.     We  can  but  give  thee  that  which  we  possess : 
Ask  of  us  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power 
O'er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators,  each  and  all, 
These  shall  be  thine. 

Man.  Oblivion,  self-oblivion  — 

Can  ye  not  wring  from  out  the  hidden  realms 
Ye  offer  so  profusely  what  I  ask? 


MANFRED  AND   THE  SEVEN  SPIRITS.    191 

Spirit.     It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill; 
But  — thou  mayest  die. 

Man.  Will  death  bestow  it  on  me? 

Spirit.     We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  forget  ; 
We  are  eternal ;  and  to  us  the  past 
Is,  as  the  future,  present.     Art  thou  answer'd? 

Man.     Ye  mock  me — but  the  power  which  brought 

ye  here 

Hath  made  you  mine.     Slaves,  scoff  not  at  my  will ! 
The  mind,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark, 
The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright, 
Pervading,  and  far  darting  as  your  own, 
And  shall  not  yield  to  yours,  though  coop'd  in  clay ! 
Answer,  or  I  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 

Spirit.     We  answer  as  we  answer'd  ;  our  reply 
Is  even  in  thine  own  words. 

Man.  Why  say  ye  so? 

Spirit.     If,  as  thou  say'st,  thine  essence  be  as  ours, 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hath  nought  to  do  with  us. 

Man.    I  then  have  call'd  ye  from  your  realms  in 

vain  ; 
Ye  cannot,  or  ye  will  not,  aid  me. 

Spirit.  Stay  ; 

What  we  possess  we  offer  ;  it  is  thine  : 
Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us,  ask  again  — 
Kingdom,  and  sway,  and  strength,  and  length  of  days  — 

Man.     Accursed  !  what  have  I  to  do  with  days? 
They  are  too  long  already.  —  Hence  —  begone  ! 

Spirit.     Yet  pause  :    being  here,  our  will   would  do 
thee  service; 


1 92  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 

Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine  eyes? 

Man.     No,  none  ;   yet    stay  —  one  moment,  ere  we 

part  — 

I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.     I  hear 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  sounds, 
As  music  on  the  waters  ;  and  I  see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star; 
But  nothing  more.     Approach  me  as  ye  are, 
Or  one,  or  all,  in  your  accustom'd  forms. 

Spirit.     We  have  no  forms,  beyond  the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle: 
But  choose  a  form  —  in  that  we  will  appear. 

Man.     I  have  no  choice  ;  there  is  no  form  on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me.     Let  him, 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting  —  Come  ! 

Seventh  Spirit.     {Appearing  in  the  shape  of  a  beautiful 
female  figure.}     Behold! 

Man.     Oh  God !  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 
Art  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 
I  yet  might  be  most  happy.     I  will  clasp  thee, 

And  we  again  will  be [  The  figure  vanishes. 

My  heart  is  crush'd  ! 
[MANFREDyrt//r  senseless. 

{A  Voice  is  heard  in  the  Incantation  which  follows.') 

When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 
And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass, 


MANFRED  AND   THE  SEVEN  SPIRITS.     193 

And  the  meteor  on  the  grave, 

And  the  wisp  on  the  morass  ; 
When  the  falling  stars  are  shooting, 
And  the  answer'd  owls  are  hooting, 
And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill, 
Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 
With  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep, 

Yet  thy  spirit  shall  not  sleep  ; 

There  are  shades  which  will  not  vanish, 

There  are  thoughts  thou  canst  not  banish  ; 

By  a  power  to  thee  unknown, 

Thou  canst  never  be  alone; 

Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 

Thou  art  gather'd  in  a  cloud; 

And  forever  shall  thou  dwell 

In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  by, 
Thou  shall  feel  me  with  ihine  eye 
As  a  ihing  thai,  ihough  unseen, 
Musi  be  near  ihee,  and  halh  been; 
And  when  in  lhat  secret  dread 
Thou  hast  turn'd  around  thy  head, 
Thou  shall  marvel  I  am  nol 
As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot, 
And  the  power  which  ihou  dosl  feel 
Shall  be  whal  ihou  must  conceal. 


194  POETRY  OF  BYROU. 

And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 

Hath  baptized  thee  with  a  curse; 

And  a  spirit  of  the  air 

Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare; 

In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 

Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejoice; 

And  to  thee  shall  Night  deny 

All  the  quiet  of  her  sky; 

And  the  Day  shall  have  a  sun, 

Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 


MANFRED   ON  THE  CLIFFS. 
(MANFRED,  Act  i.  Scene  2.) 

The  Mountain  of  the  Jungfrau.  —  Time,  Morning.  - 
MANFRED  alone  upon  the  Cliffs. 

Man.     THE  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me  — 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me  — 
The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me. 
I  lean  no  more  on  super-human  aid; 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf'd  in  darkness, 
It  is  not  of  my  search.  —  My  mother  Earth ! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you,  ye  Mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautiful?     I  cannot  love  ye. 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight  —  thou  shin'st  not  on  my  heart. 


MANFRED   ON   THE   CLIFFS.          195 

And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 

I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 

Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 

In  dizziness  of  distance;  when  a  leap, 

A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 

My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 

To  rest  forever  —  wherefore  do  I  pause? 

I  feel  the  impulse — yet  I  do  not  plunge; 

I  see  the  peril  —  yet  do  not  recede; 

And  my  brain  reels  —  and  yet  my  foot  is  firm: 

There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  withholds, 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live; 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 

To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself  — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

[An  eagle  passes. 

Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 
Well  may'st  thou  swoop  so  near  me  —  I  should  be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets;  thou  art  gone 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee;  but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 
With  a  pervading  vision.  —  Beautiful ! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world ! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix'd  essence  make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 


196  POETRY   OF  BYRON. 

The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride, 

Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will, 

Till  our  mortality  predominates, 

And  men  are  —  what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 

And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark  !  the  note, 

[  The  Shepherd"1  s  pipe  in  the  distance  is  heard. 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed  — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable  —  pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mixt  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.  — Oh,  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound. 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment  —  born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me ! 

Enter  from  below  a  CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 

Chamois  Hunter.  Even  so 

This  way  the  chamois  leapt :  her  nimble  feet 
Have  baffled  me;  my  gains  to-day  will  scarce 
Repay  my  break-neck  travail.  —  What  is  here? 
Who  seems  not  of  my  trade,  and  yet  hath  reach'd 
A  height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers, 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain :  his  garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud  as  a  free-born  peasant's,  at  this  distance  — 
I  will  approach  him  nearer. 

Man.  (not  perceiving  the  other).     To  be  thus  — 
Gray-hair'd  with  anguish,  like  these  blasted  pines, 
Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 
A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root, 


MANFRED    ON   THE   CLIFFS  197 

Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay  — 

And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus, 

Having  been  otherwise  !     Now  furrow'd  o'er 

With  wrinkles,  plough'd  by  moments,  not  by  years 

And  hours  —  all  tortured  into  ages  —  hours 

Which  I  outlive  !  —  Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice  ! 

Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 

In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush  me  ! 

I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 

Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict;  but  ye  pass, 

And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would  live; 

On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 

And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

C.  Hun.     The  mists  begin  to  rise  up  from  the  valley; 
I  '11  warn  him  to  descend,  or  he  may  chance 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 

Man.     The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers;  clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  Hell, 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore, 
Heap'd  with  the  damn'd  like  pebbles.  —  I  am  giddy. 

C.  Hun.     I  must  approach  him  cautiously;  if  near, 
A  sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  he 
Seems  tottering  already. 

Man.  Mountains  have  fallen, 

Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
.Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren;  filling  up 
The  ripe  green  valleys  with  destruction's  splinters; 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crush'd  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel  —  thus, 


198  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rosenberg  — 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it? 

C.  Hun.  Friend !  have  a  care, 

Your  next  step  may  be  fatal !  —  for  the  love 
Of  Him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that  brink ! 

Man.  (not  hearing  him).     Such  would  have  been  for 

me  a  fitting  tomb; 

My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth  ; 
They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the  rocks 
For  the  wind's  pastime  —  as  thus  —  thus  they  shall  be  — 
In  this  one  plunge.  —  Farewell,  ye  opening  heavens! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully  — 
Ye  were  not  meant  for  me  —  Earth !  take  these  atoms ! 
[As  MANFRED  is  in  the  act  to  spring  from  the  cliff, 
the  CHAMOIS   HUNTER  seizes  and  retains  him 
with  a  sudden  grasp. 

C.  Hun.  Hold,  madman  ! —  though  aweary  of  thy  life, 
Stain  not  our  pure  vales  with  thy  guilty  blood. 
Away  with  me I  will  not  quit  my  hold. 

Man.    I  am  most  sick  at  heart  — nay,  grasp  me  not  — 
I  am  all  feebleness — the  mountains  whirl 

Spinning    around    me I    grow  blind What    art 

thou? 

C.  Hun.     I  '11  answer  that  anon.  —  Away  with  me  — 

The  clouds  grow  thicker there  —  now  lean  on  me  — 

Place  your  foot  here  —  here,  take  this  staff,  and  cling 
A  moment  to  that  shrub  —  now  give  me  your  hand, 
And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle  —  softly — well  — 
The  Chalet  will  be  gain'd  within  an  hour  — 
Come  on,  we  '11  quickly  find  a  surer  footing, 
And  something  like  a  pathway,  which  the  torrent 


THE    WITCH  OF   THE  ALPS.          199 

Hath  wash'd  since  winter.  —  Come,  't  is  bravely  done  — 
You  should  have  been  a  hunter.  —  Follow  me. 

[  They  descend  the  rocks. 


THE   W 'ITCH  OF  THE  ALPS. 

(MANFRED,  Act  ii.  Scene  2.) 
A  lower  Valley  in  the  Alps.  —  A  Cataract. 

Enter  MANFRED. 

IT  is  not  noon  —  the  sunbow's  rays  still  arch 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven, 
And  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along, 
And  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser's  tail, 
The  Giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.     No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness; 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude, 
And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters.  —  I  will  call  her. 

[MANFRED  takes  some  of  the  water  into  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  and  flings  it  into  the  air,  mutter- 
ing the  adjuration.  After  a  pause,  the  WlTCH 
OF  THE  ALPS  rises  beneath  the  arch  of  the  sun- 
bow  of  the  torrent. 

Beautiful  Spirit !   with  thy  hair  of  light, 
And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory,  in  whose  form 


200  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

The  charms  of  earth's  least  mortal  daughters  grow 

To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 

Of  purer  elements;    while  the  hues  of  youth, — 

Carnation'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 

Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's  heart, 

Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twilight  leaves 

Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  virgin  snow, 

The  blush  of  earth  embracing  with  her  heaven,  — 

Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 

The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er  thee. 

Beautiful  Spirit !   in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 

Wherein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul, 

Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 

I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  Son 

Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers  permit 

At  times  to  commune  with  them —  if  that  he 

Avail  him  of  his  spells  —  to  call  thee  thus, 

And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  Earth  ! 

I  know  thee,  and  the  powers  which  give  thee  power; 
I  know  thee  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts, 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both, 
Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  sufferings. 
I  have  expected  this  —  what  would'st  thou  with  me? 

Man.     To  look  upon  thy  beauty  —  nothing  further. 
The  face  of  the  earth  hath  madden'd  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her  — 
But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.     I  have  sought 
From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow,  and  now 
I  search  no  further. 


THE  WITCH  OF  THE  ALPS.    201 

Witch.  What  could  be  the  quest 

Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful, 
The  rulers  of  the  invisible? 

Man.  A  boon; 

But  why.  should  I  repeat  it?  't  were  in  vain. 

Witch.   I  know  not  that;    let  thy  lips  utter  it. 

Afan.  Well,  though  it  torture  me,  't  is  but  the  same; 
My  pang  shall  find  a  voice.     From  my  youth  upwards 
My  spirit  walk'd  not  with  the  souls  of  men, 
Nor  look'd  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes; 
The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine, 
The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine; 
My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 
Made  me  a  stranger;    though  I  wore  the  form, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh, 
Nor  midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 

Was  there  but  one  who but  of  her  anon. 

I  said  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of  men, 

I  held  but  slight  communion;    but  instead, 

My  joy  was  in  the  Wilderness,  to  breathe 

The  difficult  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  top, 

Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's  wing 

Flit  o'er  the  herbless  granite;    or  to  plunge 

Into  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 

On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new  breaking  wave 

Of  river-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 

In  these  my  early  strength  exulted;    or 

To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 

The  stars  and  their  development;    or  catch 

The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim; 

Or  to  look,  Hst'ning,  on  the  scatter'd  leaves, 


202  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

While  Autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  song. 

These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone; 

For  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one,  — 

Hating  to  be  so,  — cross'd  me  in  my  path, 

I  felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them, 

And  was  all  clay  again.     And  then  I  dived, 

In  my  lone  wanderings,  to  the  caves  of  death, 

Searching  its  cause  in  its  effect;   and  drew 

From  wither'd  bones,  and  skulls,  and  heap'd  up  dust, 

Conclusions  most  forbidden.     Then  I  pass'd 

The  nights  of  years  in  sciences  untaught, 

Save  in  the  old  time;    and  with  time  and  toil, 

And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 

As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air, 

And  spirits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth, 

Space,  and  the  peopled  infinite,  I  made 

Mine  eyes  familiar  with  Eternity, 

Such  as,  before  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 

He  who  from  out  their  fountain-dwellings  raised 

Eros  and  Anteros,  at  Gadara, 

As  I  do  thee;  — and  with  my  knowledge  grew 

The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and  joy 

Of  this  most  bright  intelligence,  until 

Witch.     Proceed. 

Man.  Oh!  I  but  thus  prolong'd  my  words, 

Boasting  these  idle  attributes,  because 
As  I  approach  the  core  of  my  heart's  grief  — 
But  to  my  task.     I  have  not  named  to  thee 
Father  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,  or  being, 
With  whom  I  wore  the  chain  of  human  ties; 
If  I  had  such,  they  seem'd  not  such  to  me  — 


THE    WITCH  OF  THE  ALPS.         203 

Yet  there  was  one 

Witch.  Spare  not  thyself  —  proceed. 

Man.     She  was  like  me  in  lineaments  —  her  eyes, 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very  tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like  to  mine; 
But  soften'd  all,  and  temper'd  into  beauty; 
She  had  the  same  lone  thoughts  and  wanderings, 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
To  comprehend  the  universe:   nor  these 
Alone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers  than  mine, 
Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears  —  which  I  had  not; 
And  tenderness  —  but  that  I  had  for  her; 
Humility  —  and  that  I  never  had. 
Her  faults  were  mine  —  her  virtues  were  her  own  — 
I  loved  her,  and  destroy'd  her  ! 

Witch.  With  thy  hand? 

Alan.    Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart — which  broke 

her  heart  — 

It  gazed  on  mine,  and  wither'd.     I  have  shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers —  and  yet  her  blood  was  shed  — 
I  saw  —  and  could  not  stanch  it. 

Witch.  And  for  this  — 

A  being  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise, 
The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
Mingling  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  gifts  of  our  great  knowledge,  and  shrink'st  back 
To  recreant  mortality Away ! 

Man.  Daughter  of  Air !  I  tell  thee,  since  that  hour  — 
But  words  are  breath  — look  on  me  in  my  sleep, 
Or  watch  my  watchings  —  Come  and  sit  by  me  ! 
My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more, 


204  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

But  peopled  with  the  Furies;  —  I  have  gnash'd 

My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn, 

Then  curst  myself  till  sunset;  — I  have  pray'd 

For  madness  as  a  blessing —  't  is  denied  me. 

I  have  affronted  death  — but  in  the  war 

Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 

And  fatal  things  pass'd  harmless  —  the  cold  hand 

Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back, 

Back  by  a  single  hair,  which  would  not  break. 

In  fantasy,  imagination,  all 

The  affluence  of  my  soul  —  which  one  day  was 

A  Crcesus  in  creation  —  I  plunged  deep, 

But,  like  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash'd  me  back 

Into  the  gulf  of  my  unfathom'd  thought. 

I  plunged  amidst  mankind  —  Forgetfulness 

I  sought  in  all,  save  where  't  is  to  be  found, 

And  that  I  have  to  learn;  — my  sciences, 

My  long-pursued  and  superhuman  art, 

Is  mortal  here  —  I  dwell  in  my  despair  — 

And  live  —  and  live  forever. 

Witch.  It  may  be 

That  I  can  aid  thee. 

Man.  To  do  this  thy  power 

Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 
Do  so  —  in  any  shape  —  in  any  hour  — 
With  any  torture  —  so  it  be  the  last. 

Witch.     That  is  not  in  my  province;  but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes. 

Alan.  I  will  not  swear  —  Obey !  and  whom  ?  the  spirits 
Whose  presence  I  command,  and  be  the  slave 


THE    V'/ITCH  OF   THE   ALPS.         205 

Of  those  who  served  me  —  Never  ! 

Witch.  Is  this  all  ? 

Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer?  —  Yet  bethink  thee, 
And  pause  ere  thou  rejectest. 

Man.  I  have  said  it. 

Witch,     Enough !  —  I  may  retire  then  —  say  ! 

Man.  Retire ! 

[  The  WITCH  disappears. 

Man.  (atom).    We  are  the  fools  of  time  and  terror: 

Days 

Steal  on  us  and  steal  from  us;   yet  we  live, 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 
In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke  — 
This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart, 
Which  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick  with  pain, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness  — 
In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  can  number 
How  few  —  how  less  than  few  —  wherein  the  soul 
Forbears  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws  back 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  but  a  moment's.     I  have  one  resource 
Still  in  my  science  —  I  can  call  the  dead, 
And  ask  them  what  it  is  we  dread  to  be : 
The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 
And  that  is  nothing;  — if  they  answer  not  — 
The  buried  Prophet  answered  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor;    and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid's  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny  —  he  slew 
That  which  he  loved,  unknowing  what  he  slew, 


206  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  died  unpardon'd  —  though  he  call'd  in  aid 

The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Phigalia  roused 

The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 

The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath, 

Or  fix  her  term  of  vengeance  —  she  replied 

In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfill'd. 

If  I  had  never  lived,  that  which  I  love 

Had  still  been  living;    had  I  never  loved, 

That  which  I  love  would  still  be  beautiful  — 

Happy  and  giving  happiness.     What  is  she? 

What  is  she  now?  —  a  sufferer  for  my  sins  — 

A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon  —  or  nothing. 

Within  few  hours  I  shall  not  call  in  vain  — 

Yet  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare : 

Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 

On  spirit,  good  or  evil  —  now  I  tremble, 

And  feel  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart. 

But  I  can  act  even  what  I  most  abhor, 

And  champion  human  fears.  — •  The  night  approaches. 

[Exit. 


ASTARTE. 
(MANFRED,  Act  ii.  Scene  4.) 

The  Hall  ofArimanes.  —  Arimanes  on  his  Throne^ 
a  Globe  of  Fire,  surrounded  by  the  Spirits. 

Enter  the  DESTINIES  and  NEMESIS  ;   then  MANFRED. 

A  Spirit.  What  is  here? 

A  mortal !  — Thou  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch  ! 


ASTARTE.  207 

Bow  down  and  worship  ! 

Second  Spirit.  I  do  know  the  man  — 

A  Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill ! 

Third  Spirit.     Bow    down    and    worship,    slave !  — 

What,  know'st  thou  not 
Thine  and  our  Sovereign  ?  —  Tremble,  and  obey ! 

All  the  Spirits.     Prostrate  thyself,  and  thy  condemned 

clay, 
Child  of  the  Earth  !  or  dread  the  worst. 

Man.  I  know  it; 

And  yet  ye  see  I  kneel  not. 

Fourth  Spirit.  'T  will  be  taught  thee. 

Man.     'Tis  taught  already; — many  a  night  on  the 

earth, 

On  the  bare  ground,  have  I  bow'd  down  my  face, 
And  strew'd  my  head  with  ashes;   I  have  known 
The  fulness  of  humiliation,  for 
I  sunk  before  my  vain  despair,  and  knelt 
To  my  own  desolation. 

Fifth  Spirit.  Dost  thou  dare 

Refuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  Glory?  —  Crouch !  I  say. 

Man.     Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is  above  him, 
The  overruling  Infinite  —  the  Maker 
Who  made  him  not  for  worship  —  let  him  kneel, 
And  we  will  kneel  together. 

The  Spirits.  Crush  the  worm  ! 

Tear  him  in  pieces  !  — 

First  Destiny.  Hence !  Avaunt !  —  he  's  mine. 

Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible !     This  man 


208  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 

And  presence  here  denote;   his  sufferings 

Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 

Our  own;    his  knowledge,  and  his  powers  and  will, 

As  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay, 

Which  clogs  the  ethereal  essence,  have  been  such 

As  clay  hath  seldom  borne;   his  aspirations 

Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth, 

And  they  have  only  taught  him  what  we  know  — 

That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and  science 

But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 

Which  is  another  kind  of  ignorance. 

This  is  not  all  —  the  passions,  attributes 

Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor  being, 

Nor  breath  from  the  worm  upwards  is  exempt, 

Have  pierced  his  heart;    and  in  their  consequence 

Made  him  a  thing,  which  I,  who  pity  not, 

Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.     He  is  mine, 

And  thine,  it  may  be  — be  it  so,  or  not, 

No  other  Spirit  in  this  region  hath 

A  soul  like  his  —  or  power  upon  his  soul. 

Nemesis.     What  doth  he  here  then? 

First  Des,  Let  him  answer  that. 

Man.     Ye  know  what  I  have  known;   and  without 

power 

I  could  not  be  amongst  ye :   but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond  —  I  come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I  seek. 

Nem.     What  would'st  thou? 

Man.  Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 

Call  up  the  dead  —  my  question  is  for  them. 


ASTARTE.  209 

Nem.     Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal? 

Art.  Yea. 

Nem.  Whom  would'st  thou 

Uncharnel? 

Man.  One  without  a  tomb  —  call  up 

Astarte. 

NEMESIS. 

Shadow  !  or  Spirit ! 

Whatever  thou  art, 

Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 

Of  the  form  of  thy  birth, 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 
Which  return'd  to  the  earth, 

Re-appear  to  the  day ! 
Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 
And  the  aspect  thou  worest 
Redeem  from  the  worm. 
Appear  !  —  Appear !  —  Appear  ! 
Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here ! 
[  The  Phantom  0/"AsTARTE  rises  and  stand* 

in  the  midst. 
Man.     Can  this  be  death?   there  's  bloom  upon  hei 

cheek ; 

But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue, 
But  a  strange  hectic  —  like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perish'd  leaf. 
It  is  the  same  !  Oh,  God !  that  I  should  dread 


210  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

To  look  upon  the  same  —  Astarte  !  — No, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her  —  but  bid  her  speak  — 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

NEMESIS. 

By  the  power  which  hath  broken 
The  grave  which  enthrall'd  thee, 

Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 
Or  those  who  have  call'd  thee ! 

Man.  She  is  silent, 

And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  than  answer'd. 

Nem.     My  power  extends  no  further.     Prince  of  air ! 
It  rests  with  thee  alone  —  command  her  voice. 

Ari.     Spirit  —  obey  this  sceptre  ! 

Nem.  Silent  still ! 

She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 
To  the  other  powers.     Mortal !  thy  que=t  is  vain, 
And  we  are  baffled  also. 

Man.  Hear  me,  hear  me  — 

Astarte  !  my  beloved !  speak  to  me : 
I  have  so  much  endured  —  so  much  endure  — 
Look  on  me  !  the  grave  hath  not  changed  thee  more 
Than  I  am  changed  for  thee.     Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  I  loved  thee :  we  were  not  made 
To  torture  thus  each  other,  though  it  were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  have  loved. 
Say  that  thou  loath'st  me  not  —  that  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both — that  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed  —  and  that  I  shall  die; 
For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 


ASTARTE.  211 

To  bind  me  in  existence  —  in  a  life 

Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality  — 

A  future  like  the  past.     I  cannot  rest. 

I  know  not  what  I  ask,  nor  what  I  seek: 

I  feel  but  what  thou  art  —  and  what  I  am; 

And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 

The  voice  which  was  my  music  —  Speak  to  me ! 

For  I  have  call'd  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 

Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  hush'd  boughs, 

And  woke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the  caves 

Acquainted  with  thy  vainly  echoed  name, 

Which  answer'd  me  — many  things  answer'd  me  — 

Spirits  and  men  —  but  thou  wert  silent  all. 

Yet  speak  to  me !  I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars, 

And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  thee. 

Speak  to  me !  I  have  wander'd  o'er  the  earth, 

And  never  found  thy  likeness  —  Speak  to  me  ! 

Look  on  the  fiends  around  —  they  feel  for  me : 

I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone  — 

Speak  to  me  !  though  it  be  in  wrath ;  —  but  say  — 

I  reck  not  what  —  but  let  me  hear  thee  once  — 

This  once  —  once  more  ! 

Phantom  of  Astarte.     Manfred  ! 

Man.  Say  on,  say  on  — 

I  live  but  in  the  sound  —  it  is  thy  voice  ! 

Phan.     Manfred  !     To-morrow  ends  thine  earthly  ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man.     Yet  one  word  more  — am  I  forgiven? 

Phan.     Farewell ! 

Man.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again? 

Phan.     Farewell ! 


212  POETA'Y  OF  BYRON. 

Man.     One  word  for  mercy!     Say,  thou  lovest  me. 

Phan.     Manfred ! 

[  The  Spirit  0/AsTARTE  disappears. 

Nem.  She  's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recall'd; 

Her  words  will  be  fulfill'd.     Return  to  the  earth. 

A  Spirit.     He  is  convulsed  —  This  is  to  be  a  mortal 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality. 

Another  Spirit.     Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  himself,  and 

makes 

His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 

Nem.  Hast  thou  further  question 

Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers? 

Man.     None. 

Nem.  Then  for  a  time  farewell. 

Man.     We  meet  then!     Where?     On  the  earth?  — 
Even  as  thou  wilt :  and  for  the  grace  accorded 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.     Fare  ye  well ! 

[Exit  MANFRED. 


MANFRED'S  FAREWELL    TO    THE  SUN. 
(MANFRED,  Act  iii.  Scene  2.) 

GLORIOUS  Orb !  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sons 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw,  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  can  ne'er  return  — 


MANFRED'S  END.  213 

Most  glorious  orb !  that  wert  a  worship,  ere 

The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  reveal'd ! 

Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 

Which  gladden'd,  on  their  mountain  tops,  the  hearts 

Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  pour'd 

Themselves  in  orisons  !     Thou  material  God, 

And  representative  of  the  Unknown  — 

Who  chose  thee  for  His  shadow  !     Thou  chief  star, 

Centre  of  many  stars !  which  mak'st  our  earth 

Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 

And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays ! 

Sire  of  the  seasons !     Monarch  of  the  climes, 

And  those  who  dwell  in  them  !  for  near  or  far, 

Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee 

Even  as  our  outward  aspects;  — thou  dost  rise, 

And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.     Fare  thee  well ! 

I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.     As  my  first  glance 

Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 

My  latest  look :   thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 

To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  have  been 

Of  a  more  fatal  nature.     He  is  gone : 

I  follow. 

MANFRED'S  END. 

(MANFRED,  Act  iii.  Scene  4.) 

Interior  of  a  Tower.     MANFRED  alone \ 

THE  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow -shining  mountains.  —  Beautiful! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 


214  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 

Than  that  of  man;  and  in  her  starry  shade 

Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world. 

I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 

When  I  was  wandering,  —  upon  such  a  night 

I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 

Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome; 

The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 

Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 

Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin;    from  afar 

The  watchdog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber;    and 

More  near  from  out  the  Caesar's  palace  came 

The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 

Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 

Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 

Within  a  bowshot.  —  Where  the  Csesars  dwelt, 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battlements, 

And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth;  — 

But  the  gladiator's  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 

While  Caesar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halls, 

Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. 

—  And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up, 


MANFRED'S  END.  215 

As  't  were  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old !  — 
The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns.  — 

'T  was  such  a  night ! 
'T  is  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time; 
But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 

Enter  the  ABBOT. 

Abbot.  My  good  lord ! 

I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness  —  all  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me;   its  good  in  the  effect 
May  light  upon  your  head  —  could  I  say  heart  — 
Could  I  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I  should 
Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  hath  wander'd, 
But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

Man.  Thou  know'st  me  not; 

My  days  are  number'd,  and  my  deeds  recorded: 
Retire,  or  't  will  be  dangerous  —  Away! 

Abboi.     Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace  me? 

Man.  Not  I; 

I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand, 
And  would  preserve  thee. 

Abbot.  What  dost  thou  mean? 


2l6  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Man.  Look  there ! 

What  dost  thou  see? 

Abbot.  Nothing. 

Man.  Look  there,  I  say, 

And  steadfastly;  — now  tell  me  what  thou  seest? 

Abbot.     That  which  should  shake  me,  —  but  I  fear  it 

not  — 

I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise, 
Like  an  infernal  god,  from  out  the  earth; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds;    he  stands  between 
Thyself  and  me  —  but  I  do  fear  him  not. 

Man.     Thou  hast  no  cause  —  he  shall  not  harm  thee  — 

but 

His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy. 
I  say  to  thee  —  Retire  ! 

Abbot.  And  I  reply  — 

Never — till  I  have  battled  with  this  fiend:  — 
What  doth  he  here  ? 

Man.  Why — ay — what  doth  he  here?  — 

I  did  not  send  for  him,  — he  is  unbidden. 

Abbot.     Alas  !  lost  mortal !   what  with  guests  like  these 
Hast  thou  to  do?     I  tremble  for  thy  sake: 
Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him? 
Ah !  he  unveils  his  aspect :  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven;  from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell  — 
Avaunt ! — 

Man.     Pronounce  —  what  is  thy  mission? 

Spirit.  Come ! 

Abbot.     What  art  thou,  unknown  being?  answer!  — 
speak  ! 


MANFRED'S  END.  217 

Spirit.     The  genius  of  this  mortal.  —  Come !  't  is  time. 

Man.     I  am  prepared  for  all  things,  but  deny 
The  power  which  summons  me.     Who  sent  thee  here? 

Spirit.     Thou  'It  know  anon  —  Come  !  come ! 

Man.  I  have  commanded 

Things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine, 
And  striven  with  thy  masters.     Get  thee  hence ! 

Spirit.     Mortal !  thine  hour  is  come — Away!  I  say. 

Man.     I  knew,  and  know  my  hour  is  come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee : 
Away  !  I  '11  die  as  I  have  lived  —  alone. 

Spirit.     Then  I  must  summon  up  my  brethren. — Rise  ! 
[  Other  spirits  rise  up. 

Abbot.     Avaunt !  ye  evil  ones !  — Avaunt !  I  say,  — 
Ye  have  no  power  where  piety  hath  power, 
And  I  do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

Spirit.  Old  man ! 

We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 
It  were  in  vain:  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him  —  Away  !  away ! 

Man.     I  do  defy  ye,  — though  I  feel  my  soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye; 
Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly  breath 
To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye  —  earthly  strength 
To  wrestle,  though  with  spirits;  what  ye  take 
Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

Spirit.  Reluctant  mortal! 

Is  this  the  Magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal  ?  —  Can  it  be  that  thou 


218  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Art  thus  in  love  with  life?  the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched  ! 

Man.  Thou  false  fiend,  thou  liest ! 

My  life  is  in  its  last  hour,  — that  I  know, 
Nor  would  redeem  a  moment  of  that  hour; 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
And  thy  surrounding  angels;  my  past  power 
Was  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy  crew, 
But  by  superior  science  —  penance  —  daring  — 
And  length  of  watching  —  strength  of  mind  —  and  skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers  —  when  the  earth 
Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side, 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy:  I  stand 
Upon  my  strength  —  I  do  defy  —  deny  — 
Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye  !  — 

Spirit.  But  thy  many  crimes 

Have  made  thee 

Man.  What  are  they  to  such  as  thee? 

Must  crimes  be  punish 'd  but  by  other  crimes, 
And  greater  criminals?  —  Back  to  thy  hell ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel; 
Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I  know : 
What  I  have  done  is  done;    I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine: 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts  — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end  — 
And  its  own  place  and  time  —  its  innate  sense, 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  color  from  the  fleeting  things  without; 
But  is  absorb'd  in  sufferance  or  in  joy, 


DYING  SPEECH  OF  DOGE  OF  VENICE.   219 

Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 

Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not  tempt  me; 

I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey  — 

But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 

My  own  hereafter.  — Back,  ye  baffled  fiends! 

The  hand  of  death  is  on  me  —  but  not  yours ! 

[  The  Demons  disappear. 

Abbot.     Alas !  how  pale  thou  art  — thy  lips  are  white  — 
And  thy  breast  heaves  —  and  in  thy  gasping  throat 
The  accents  rattle.  — Give  thy  prayers  to  Heaven  — 
Pray  —  albeit  but  in  thought, — but  die  not  thus. 

Man.     'T  is  over —  my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  not; 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.     Fare  thee  well  — 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Abbot.  Cold  —  cold  —  even  to  the  heart  — 

But  yet  one  prayer  —  Alas  !  how  fares  it  with  thee  ? 

Man.     Old  man !  't  is  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

[MANFRED  expires. 


DYING  SPEECH  OF   THE  DOGE    OF 
VENICE. 

(MARINO  FALIERO,  Act  v.  Scene  3.) 

I  SPEAK  to  Time  and  to  Eternity, 

Of  which  I  grow  a  portion,  not  to  man. 

Ye  elements !  in  which  to  be  resolved 

I  hasten,  let  my  voice  be  as  a  spirit 

Upon  you !     Ye  blue  waves  !  which  bore  my  banner, 

Ye  winds !  which  flutter'd  o'er  as  if  you  loved  it, 


220  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

And  fill'd  my  swelling  sails  as  they  were  wafted 

To  many  a  triumph !     Thou,  my  native  earth, 

Which  I  have  bled  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth, 

Which  drank  this  willing  blood  from  many  a  wound ! 

Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  but 

Reck  up  to  Heaven  !     Ye  skies,  which  will  receive  it ! 

Thou  sun  !  which  shinest  on  these  things,  and  Thou  ! 

Who  kindlest  and  who  quenchest  suns  !  —  Attest ! 

I  am  not  innocent  — but  are  these  guiltless? 

I  perish,  but  not  unavenged;  far  ages 

Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 

And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the  doom 

Of  this  proud  city,  and  I  leave  my  curse 

On  her  and  hers  forever ! —Yes,  the  hours 

Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 
When  she,  who  built  'gainst  Attila  a  bulwark, 
Shall  yield,  and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield 
Unto  a  bastard  Attila,  without 
Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 
As  these  old  veins,  oft  drain'd  in  shielding  her, 
Shall  pour  in  sacrifice.     She  shall  be  bought 
And  sold,  and  be  an  appanage  to  those 
Who  shall  despise  her  !  —  She  shall  stoop  to  be 
A  province  for  an  empire,  petty  town 
In  lieu  of  capital,  with  slaves  for  senates, 
Beggars  for  nobles,  panders  for  a  people ! 
Then  when  the  Hebrew  's  in  thy  palaces, 
The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 
Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ! 
When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 
In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 


DYING  SPEECH  OF  DOGE  OF  VENICE.    22 1 

Make  their  nobility  a  plea  for  pity ! 

Then,  when  the  few  who  still  retain  a  wreck 

Of  their  great  fathers'  heritage  shall  fawn 

Round  a  barbarian  Vice  of  Kings'  Vice-gerent, 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  sway'd  as  sovereigns, 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  slew  their  sovereign, 

Proud  of  some  name  they  have  disgraced,  or  sprung 

From  an  adulteress  boastful  of  her  guilt 

With  some  large  gondolier  or  foreign  soldier, 

Shall  bear  about  their  bastardy  in  triumph 

To  the  third  spurious  generation;  —  when 

Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 

Slaves  turn'd  o'er  to  the  vanquish'd  by  the  victors, 

Despised  by  cowards  for  greater  cowardice, 

And  scorn'd  even  by  the  vicious  for  such  vices 

As  in  the  monstrous  grasp  of  their  conception 

Defy  all  codes  to  image  or  to  name  them; 

When  all  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states  shall  cling  thee, 

Vice  without  splendor,  sin  without  relief 

Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smooth  it  o'er, 

But  in  its  stead,  coarse  lusts  of  habitude, 

Prurient  yet  passionless,  cold  studied  lewdness, 

Depraving  nature's  frailty  to  an  art;  — 

When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 

Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  pleasure, 

Youth  without  honor,  age  without  respect, 

Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  woe 

'Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  dar'st  not  murmur, 

Have  made  thee  last  and  worst  of  peopled  deserts  — 

Then,  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 

Amidst  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine! 


222  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes ! 
Gehenna  of  the  waters !  thou  sea  Sodom  ! 
Thus  I  devote  the?  to  the  infernal  gods ! 
Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed ! 


DEATH   OF  SALEMENES. 
(SARDANAPALUS,  Act  v.  Scene  i.) 

To  MYRRHA  and  BALEA,  enter  Soldiers,  bearing  in 
SALEMENES  wountteJ,  with  a  broken  Javelin  in  his 
Side  :  they  seat  him  upon  one  of  the  Couches  which 
furnish  the  Apartment. 

Myr.     Oh,  Jove ! 

Bal.  Then  all  is  over. 

Sal.  That  is  false. 

Hew  down  the  slave  who  says  so,  if  a  soldier. 

Myr.     Spare  him  —  he  's  none :  a  mere  court  butterfly, 
That  flutters  in  the  pageant  of  a  monarch. 

Sal.     Let  him  live  on,  then. 

Myr.  So  wilt  thou,  I  trust. 

Sal.     I  fain  would  live  this  hour  out,  and  the  event, 
But  doubt  it.     Wherefore  did  ye  bear  me  here? 

Sol.     By  the  king's  order.   When  the  javelin  struck  you, 
You  fell  and  fainted:  't  was  his  strict  command 
To  bear  you  to  this  hall. 

Sal.  'T  was  not  ill  done : 

For  seeming  slain  in  that  cold  dizzy  trance, 
The  sight  might  shake  our  soldiers  —  but  —  't  is  vain, 
I  feel  it  ebbing ! 


DEATH  OF  SALEMENES.  223 

Myr.  Let  me  see  the  wound; 

I  am  not  quite  skilless :  in  my  native  land 
'T  is  part  of  our  instruction.     War  being  constant, 
We  are  nerved  to  look  on  such  things. 

Sol.  Best  extract 

The  javelin. 

Myr.  Hold !  no,  no,  it  cannot  be. 

Sal.     I  am  sped,  then  ! 

Myr.  With  the  blood  that  fast  must  follow 

The  extracted  weapon,  I  do  fear  thy  life. 

Sal.   And  I  not  death.    Where  was  the  king  when  you 
Convey'd  me  from  the  spot  where  I  was  stricken? 

Sol.     Upon  the  same  ground,  and  encouraging 
With  voice  and  gesture  the  dispirited  troops 
Who  had  seen  you  fall,  and  falter'd  back. 

Sal.  Whom  heard  ye 

Named  next  to  the  command? 

Sol.  I  did  not  hear. 

Sal.     Fly,  then,  and  tell  him,  't  was  my  last  request 
That  Zames  take  my  post  until  the  junction, 
So  hoped  for,  yet  delay'd,  of  Ofratanes, 
Satrap  of  Susa.     Leave  me  here :  our  troops 
Are  not  so  numerous  as  to  spare  your  absence. 

Sol.     But  prince 

Sal.  Hence,  I  say  !    Here  's  a  courtier  and 

A  woman,  the  best  chamber  company. 
As  you  would  not  permit  me  to  expire 
Upon  the  field,  I  '11  have  no  idle  soldiers 
About  my  sick  couch.     Hence  !  and  do  my  bidding ! 

[  Exeunt  the  Soldiers. 

Myr.     Gallant  and  glorious  spirit !  must  the  earth 
So  soon  resign  thee? 


224  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Sal.  Gentle  Myrrha,  't  is 

The  end  I  would  have  chosen  had  I  saved 
The  monarch  or  the  monarchy  by  thir 
As  't  is,  I  have  not  outlived  them. 

Myr.  You  wax  paler. 

Sal.     Your  hand;  this  broken  weapon  but  prolongs 
My  pangs,  without  sustaining  life  enough, 
To  make  me  useful :  I  would  draw  it  forth, 
And  my  life  with  it,  could  I  but  hear  how 
The  fight  goes. 

Enter  SARDANAPALUS  and  Soldiers. 

Sar.  My  best  brother  ! 

Sal.  And  the  battle 

Is  lost? 

Sar.  (  despondingly  ) .     You  see  me  here. 
Sal.  I  'd  rather  see  you  thus  ! 

[He  draws  out  the  weapon  from  the  wound,  and 
dies. 


DEATH  OF  JACOPO  FOSCARI. 
(Two  FOSCARI,  Act  iv.  Scene  i.) 

To  JACOPO  FOSCARI,  MARINA,  and  the  DOGE, 

enter  an  Officer  and  Guards. 

Offi.     Signer  !  the  boat  is  at  the  shore  —  the  wind 
Is  rising  —  we  are  ready  to  attend  you. 

Jac.  Fos.     And  I  to  be  attended.     Once  more,  father, 
l^our  hand ! 


DEATH  OFJACOPO   FOSCARI.         225 

Doge.  Take  it.     Alas!  how  thine  own  trembles  ! 

Jac.  Fos.     No  — you  mistake;  't  is  yours  that  shakes, 

my  father, 
Farewell ! 

Doge.     Farewell !     Is  there  aught  else  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  No  —  nothing. 

[  To  the  Officer. 
Lend  me  your  arm,  good  signor. 

Pffi.  You  turn  pale  — 

Let  me  support  you  —  paler  — -  ho  !  some  aid  there  ! 
Some  water  ! 

Mar.  Ah,  he  is  dying  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  Now,  I  'm  ready  — 

My  eyes  swim  strangely  —  where  's  the  door? 

Mar.  Away ! 

Let  me  support  him  — my  best  love  !     Oh,  God  ! 
How  faintly  beats  this  heart  —  this  pulse  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  The  light ! 

A  it  the  light?  —  I  am  faint. 

[  Officer  presents  him  with  water. 

Offi.  He  will  be  better, 

Perhaps,  in  the  air. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  doubt  not.     Father  —  wife  — 

Your  hands. 

Mar.     There  's  death  in  that  damp  clammy  grasp. 
Oh,  God! — My  Foscari,  how  fare  you? 

Jac.  Fos.  Well! 

[He  dies. 

Ojffi.      He's  gone ! 

Doge.  He  's  free. 

Afar.  No  —  no,  he  is  not  dead. 


226  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

There  must  be  life  yet  in  that  heart  —  he  could  not 
Thus  leave  me. 

Doge.  Daughter ! 

Mar.  Hold  thy  peace,  old  man ! 

I  am  no  daughter  now  —  thou  hast  no  son. 
Oh,  Foscari ! 

Offi.  We  must  remove  the  body. 

Mar.     Touch  it  not,  dungeon  miscreants !  your  base 

office 

Ends  with  his  life,  and  goes  not  beyond  murder, 
Even  by  your  murderous  laws.     Leave  his  remains 
To  those  who  know  to  honor  them. 

Offi.  I  must 

Inform  the  signory,  and  learn  their  pleasure. 

Doge.     Inform  the  signory,  from  me,  the  Doge, 
They  have  no  further  power  upon  those  ashes: 
While  he  lived,  he  was  theirs,  as  fits  a  subject  — 
Now  he  is  mine  —  my  broken-hearted  boy! 

[Exit  Officer. 

Mar.     And  I  must  live ! 

Doge.  Your  children  live,  Marina. 

Mar.     My  children  !  true  —  they  live,  and  I  must  live 
To  bring  them  up  to  serve  the  state,  and  die 
As  died  their  father.     Oh  !  what  best  of  blessings 
Were  barrenness  in  Venice  !     Would  my  mother 
Had  been  so ! 

Doge.  My  unhappy  children ! 

Mar.  What ! 

You  feel  it  then  at  last  — you  !  —  Where  is  now 
The  stoic  of  the  state? 

Doge  (throwing  himself  down  by  the  body).     Here! 


CAIN  AND  LUCIFER.  227 

Mar.  Ay,  weep  on ! 

I  thought  you  had  no  tears  —  you  hoarded  them 
Until  they  are  useless;  but  weep  on !  he  never 
Shall  weep  more  —  never,  never  more. 


CAIN  AND  LUCIFER  IN  THE  ABYSS 
OF  SPACE. 

(CAIN,  Act  ii.  Scene  i.) 

Cain.     Oh,  god,  or  demon,  or  whate'er  thou  art, 
Is  yon  our  earth  ? 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  not  recognize 

The  dust  which  form'd  your  father? 

Cain.  Can  it  be? 

Yon  small  blue  circle,  swinging  in  far  ether, 
With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still, 
Which  looks  like  that  which  lit  our  earthly  night? 
Is  this  our  Paradise?     Where  are  its  walls, 
And  they  who  guard  them? 

Lucifer.  Point  me  out  the  site 

Of  Paradise. 

Cain.  How  should  I?     As  we  move 

Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  and  smaller, 
And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less, 
Gathers  a  halo  round  it,  like  the  light 
Which  shone  the  roundest  of  the  stars,  when  I 
Beheld  them  from  the  skirts  of  Paradise: 
Methinks  they  both,  as  we  recede  from  them, 
Appear  to  join  the  innumerable  stars 


228  POETRY  OF  BY  RON. 

Which  are  around  us;  and,  as  we  move  on, 
Increase  their  myriads. 

Lncifer.  And  if  there  should  be 

Worlds  greater  than  thine  own,  inhabited 
By  greater  things,  and  they  themselves  far  more 
In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dull  earth, 
Though  multiplied  to  animated  atoms, 
All  living,  and  all  doom'd  to  death,  and  wretched, 
What  wouldst  thou  think? 

Cain.  I  should  be  proud  of  thought 

Which  knew  such  things. 

Lucifer.                              But  if  that  high  thought  were 
Link'd  to  a  servile  mass  of  matter,  and, 
Knowing  such  things,  aspiring  to  such  things, 
And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  chain'd  down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 
All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a  sweet  degradation, 
A  most  enervating  and  filthy  cheat 
To  lure  thee  on  to  the  renewal  of 
Fresh  souls  and  bodies,  all  foredoom'd  to  be 
As  frail,  and  few  so  happy 

Cain.  Spirit !     I 

Know  not  of  death,  save  as  a  dreadful  thing 
Of  which  I  have  heard  my  parents  speak,  as  of 
A  hideous  heritage  I  owe  to  them 
No  less  than  life;  a  heritage  not  happy, 
If  I  may  judge,  till  now.     But,  spirit !  if 
It  be  as  thou  hast  said  (and  I  within 
Feel  the  prophetic  torture  of  its  truth), 
Here  let  me  die :  for  to  give  birth  to  those ' 


CAIN  AND   LUCIFER.  229 

Who  can  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 
Mothinks  is  merely  propagating  death, 
And  multiplying  murder. 

Lucifer.  Thou  canst  not 

.-///  die  —  there  is  what  must  survive. 

Cain.  The  Other 

Spake  not  of  this  unto  my  father,  when 
He  shut  him  forth  from  Paradise,  with  death 
Written  upon  his  forehead.     But  at  least 
Let  what  is  mortal  of  me  perish,  that 
I  may  be  in  the  rest  as  angels  are. 

Lucifer,     /am  angelic:  wouldst  thou  be  as  I  am? 

Cain.     I  know  not  what  thou  art :  I  see  thy  power, 
And  see  thou  show'st  me  things  beyond  my  power. 
Beyond  all  power  of  my  born  faculties, 
Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 
And  my  conceptions. 

Lucifer.  What  are  they  which  dwell 

So  humbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojourn 
With  worms  in  clay? 

Cain.  And  what  art  thou  who  dwellest 

So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 
Nature  and  immortality  —  and  yet 
Seem'st  sorrowful? 

Lucifer.  .  I  seem  that  which  I  am; 

And  therefore  do  I  ask  of  thee,  if  thou 
Would'st  be  immortal ! 

Cain.  Thou  hast  said,  I  must  be 

Immortal  in  despite  of  me.     I  knew  not 
This  until  lately  —  but  since  it  must  be, 
Let  me,  or  happy  or  unhappy,  learn 
To  anticipate  my  immortality. 


23°  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Lucifer.     Thou  didst  before  I  came  upon  thee. 

Cain.  How  ? 

Lucifer.     By  suffering. 

Cain.  And  must  torture  be  immortal? 

Lucifer.     We  and  thy  sons  will  try.     But  now  behold  ! 
Is  it  not  glorious  ? 

Cain.  Oh,  thou  beautiful 

And  unimaginable  ether !  and 
Ye  multiplying  masses  of  increased 
And  still  increasing  lights!  what  are  ye?  what 
Is  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable 
Air,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  I  have  seen 
The  leaves  along  the  limpid  streams  of  Eden? 
Is  your  course  measured  for  ye?     Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  in  your  unbounded  revelry 
Through  an  aerial  universe  of  endless 
Expansion  —  at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think  — 
Intoxicated  with  eternity? 
Oh  God  !  Oh  Gods  !  or  whatsoe'er  ye  are ! 
How  beautiful  ye  are  !  how  beautiful 
Your  works,  or  accidents,  or  whatsoe'er 
They  may  be !     Let  me  die,  as  atoms  die, 
(If  that  they  die)  or  know  ye  in  your  might 
And  knowledge  !     My  thoughts  are  not  in  this  hour 
Unworthy  what  I  see,  though  my  dust  is; 
Spirit !  let  me  expire,  or  see  them  nearer. 

Lucifer.     Art  thou   not  nearer?   look  back  to  thine 
earth ! 

Cain.     Where  is  it?     I  see  nothing  save  a  mass 
Of  most  innumerable  lights. 

Lucifer.  Look  there ! 


CAIN  AND   ADAH.  231 

Cain,     I  cannot  see  it. 

Lucifer.  Yet  it  sparkles  still. 

Cain.     That !  —  yonder  ! 

Lucifer.  Yea. 

Cain.  And  wilt  thou  tell  me  so? 

Why,  I  have  seen  the  fire-flies  and  fire-worms 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banks 
In  the  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  yon  world 
Which  bears  them. 

Lucifer.     Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and  worlds, 
Each  bright  and  sparkling  —  what  dost  think  of  them? 

Cain.     That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own  sphere, 
And  that  the  night,  which  makes  both  beautiful, 
The  little  shining  fire-fly  in  its  flight, 
And  the  immortal  star  in  its  great  course, 
Must  both  be  guided. 

Lucifer.  But  by  whom  or  what? 

Cain.     Show  me. 

Lucifer.  Dar'st  thou  behold? 

Cain.  How  know  I  what 

I  dare  behold?     As  yet,  thou  hast  shown  nought 
I  dare  not  gaze  on  further. 

Lucifer.  On,  then,  with  me. 


CAIN  AND  ADAH. 
(CAIN,  Act  iii.  Scene  i.) 

Adah.     HUSH  !  tread  softly,  Cain. 

Cain.  I  will;  but  wherefore? 


232  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Adah.     Our  little  Enoch  sleeps  upon  yon  bed 
Of  leaves,  beneath  the  cypress. 

Cain.  Cypress !  't  is 

A  gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  mourn'd 
O'er  what  it  shadows;  wherefore  didst  thou  choose  it 
For  our  child's  canopy? 

Adah.  Because  its  branches 

Shut  out  the  sun  like  night,  and  therefore  seem'd 
Fitting  to  shadow  slumber. 

Cain  Ay,  the  last  — 

And  longest;  but  no  matter  —  lead  me  to  him. 

[  They  go  up  to  the  child. 
How  lovely  he  appears !  his  little  cheeks, 
In  their  pure  incarnation,  vying  with 
The  rose  leaves  strewn  beneath  them. 

Adah.  And  his  lips,  too. 

How  beautifully  parted!  No;  you  shall  not 
Kiss  him,  at  least  not  now:   he  will  awake  soon — 
His  hour  of  mid-day  rest  is  nearly  over; 
But  it  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
'T  is  closed. 

Cain.  You  have  said  well;   I  will  contain 

My  heart  till  then.     He  smiles,  and  sleeps  !  — Sleep  on 
And  smile,  thou  little,  young  inheritor 
Of  a  world  scarce  less  young:   sleep  on,  and  smile ! 
Thine  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are  cheering 
And  innocent !  thou  hast  not  plnck'd  the  fruit  — 
Thou  know'st  not  thou  art  naked !     Must  the  time 
Come  thou  shall  be  amerced  for  sins  unknown, 
Which  were  not  thine  nor  mine?     But  now  sleep  on! 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles, 


CAIN  AND   ADAH.  233 

And  shining  lids  are  trembling  o'er  his  long 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  cypress  which  waves  o'er  them; 
Half  open,  from  beneath  them  the  clear  blue 
Laughs  out,  although  in  slumber.     He  must  dream  — 
Of  what?     Of  Paradise  !  — Ay  !  dream  of  it, 
My  disinherited  boy  !      'T  is  but  a  dream; 
For  never  more  thyself,  thy  sons,  nor  fathers, 
Shall  walk  in  that  forbidden  place  of  joy ! 

Adah.     Dear  Cain  !    Nay,  do  not  whisper  o'er  our  son 
Such  melancholy  yearnings  o'er  the  past: 
Why  wilt  thou  always  mourn  for  Paradise? 
Can  we  not  make  another? 

Cain.  Where? 

Adah.  Here,  or 

Where'er  thou  wilt:  where'er  thou  art,  I  feel  not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  regretted  Eden. 
Have  I  not  thee,  our  boy,  our  sire,  and  brother, 
And  Zillah  —  our  sweet  sister,  and  our  Eve, 
To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth? 

Cain.     Yes  —  death,  too,  is  amongst  the  debts  we  owe 
her. 

Adah.     Cain !    that  proud  spirit,  who  withdrew  thee 

hence, 

Hath  sadden'd  thiiii  still  deeper.     I  had  hoped 
The  promised  wonders  which  thou  hast  beheld, 
Visions,  thou  say'st,  of  past  and  present  worlds, 
Would  have  composed  thy  mind  into  the  calm 
Of  a  contented  knowledge;    but  I  see 
Thy  guide  hath  done  thee  evil;   still  I  thank  him, 
And  can  forgive  him  all,  that  he  so  soon 
Hath  given  thee  back  to  us. 


234  POETKY  OF  BYRON. 

Cain.  So  soon? 

Adah.  'T  is  scarcely 

Two  hours  since  ye  departed  :   two  long  hours 
To  me,  but  only  /tours  upon  the  sun. 

Cain.     And  yet  I  have  approach'd  that  sun,  and  seen 
Worlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  and  never  more 
Shall  light;    and  worlds  he  never  lit:   methought 
Years  had  roll'd  o'er  my  absence. 

Adah.  Hardly  hours. 

Cain.     The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time, 
And  measures  it  by  that  which  it  beholds, 
Pleasing  or  painful;    little  or  almighty. 
I  had  beheld  the  immemorial  works 
Of  endless  beings;   skirr'd  extinguish'd  worlds; 
And,  gazing  on  eternity,  methought 
I  had  borrow'd  more  by  a  few  drops  of  ages 
From  its  immensity :   but  now  I  feel 
My  littleness  again.     Well  said  the  spirit, 
That  I  was  nothing ! 

Adah.  Wherefore  said  he  so? 

Jehovah  said  not  that. 

Cain.  No:  he  contents  him 

With  making  us  the  nothing  which  we  are; 
And  after  flattering  dust  with  glimpses  of 
Eden  and  Immortality,  resolves 
It  back  to  dust  again  —  for  what? 

Adah.  Thou  know'st  — 

Even  for  our  parents'  error. 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  us?  they  sinn'd,  then  let  (hem  die! 

Adah.     Thou  hast  not  spoken  well,  nor  is  that  thought 


CAIN  AND  ADAH.  235 

Thy  own,  but  of  the  spirit  who  was  with  thee. 
Would  /  could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live  ! 

Cain.     Why,  so  say  I  —  provided  that  one  victim 
Might  satiate  the  insatiable  of  life, 
And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 
Might  never  taste  of  death  nor  human  sorrow, 
Nor  hand  it  down  to  those  who  spring  from  him. 

Adah.     How  know  we  that  some  such  atonement  on'? 

day 
May  not  redeem  our  race? 

Cain.  By  sacrificing 

The  harmless  for  the  guilty?  what  atonement 
Were  there?  why,  we  are  innocent:   what  have  we 
Done,  that  we  must  be  victims  for  a  deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Atone  for  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin  — 
If  it  be  such  a  sin  to  seek  for  knowledge? 

Adah.     Alas!  thou  sinnest  now,  my  Cain:  thy  words 
Sound  impious  in  mine  ears. 

Cain.  Then  leave  me  ! 

Adah.  Never, 

Though  thy  God  left  thee. 

Cain.  Say,  what  have  we  here? 

Adah.     Two  altars,  which  our  brother  Abel  made 
During  thine  absence,  whereupon  to  offer 
A  sacrifice  to  God  on  thy  return. 

Cain.     And  how  knew  he,  that  /  would  be  so  ready 
With  the  burnt  offerings,  which  he  daily  brings 
With  a  meek  brow,  whose  base  humility 
Shows  more  of  fear  than  worship,  as  a  bribe 
To  the  Creator  ? 


236  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Adah.  Surely,  't  is  well  done. 

Cain.     One  altar  may  suffice;    /have  no  offering. 

Adah.     The  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  early,  beautiful 
Blossom  and  bud,  and  bloom  of  flowers,  and  fruits; 
These  are  a  goodly  offering  to  the  Lord, 
Given  with  a  gentle  and  a  contrite  spirit. 

Cain.     I  have  toil'd,  and  till'd,  and  sweaten  in  the 

sun 

According  to  the  curse:  —  must  I  do  more? 
For  what  should  I  be  gentle?  for  a  war 
With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 
The  bread  we  eat?     For  what  must  I  be  grateful? 
For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 
Till  I  return  to  dust?     If  I  am  nothing  — 
For  nothing  shall  I  be  an  hypocrite, 
And  seem  well-pleased  with  pain?     For  what  should  I 
Be  contrite?  for  my  father's  sin,  already 
Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone, 
And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 
The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed. 
Little  deems  our  young  blooming  sleeper,  there, 
The  germs  of  an  eternal  misery 
To  myriads  is  within  him !  better  't  were 
I  snatch'd  him  in  his  sleep,  and  dash'd  him  'gainst 
The  rocks,  than  let  him  live  to  — 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God ! 

Touch  not  the  child  —  my  child  !  thy  child  !     Oh,  Cain  ! 

Cain.     Fear  not !   for  all  the  stars,  and  all  the  power 
Which  sways  them,  I  would  not  accost  yon  infant 
With  ruder  greeting  than  a  father's  kiss. 

Adah.     Then,  why  so  awful  in  thy  speech? 


CAIN  AND   ADAH.  237 

Cain.  I  said, 

'T  were  better  that  he  ceased  to  live,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  still,  bequeath;   but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  say  — 
'T  were  better  that  he  never  had  been  born. 

Adah.     Oh,  do  not  say  so  !    Where  were  then  the  joys, 
The  mother's  joys  of  watching,  nourishing, 
And  loving  him?     Soft!   he  awakes.      Sweet  Enoch  ! 

[  She  goes  to  the  child. 

Oh  Cain  !  look  on  him;    see  how  full  of  life, 
Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  and  of  joy, 
How  like  to  me  — how  like  to  thee,  when  gentle, 
For  then  we  are  all  alike;   is  't  not  so,  Cain? 
Mother,  and  sire,  and  son,  our  features  are 
Reflected  in  each  other;   as  they  are 
In  the  clear  waters,  when  they  are  gentle,  and 
When  than  art  gentle.     Love  us,  then,  my  Cain ! 
\nd  love  thyself  for  our  sakes,  for  we  love  thee. 
Look  !   how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out  his  arms, 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine, 
To  hail  his  father;    while  his  little  form 
Flutters  as  wing'd  with  joy.     Talk  not  of  pain ! 
The  childless  cherubs  well  might  envy  thee 
The  pleasures  of  a  parent !     Bless  him,  Cain  ! 
As  yet  he  hath  no  words  to  thank  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thine  own  too. 

Cain.  Bless  thee,  boy ! 

If  that  a  mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee, 
To  save  thee  from  the  serpent's  curse  ! 


238  POETRY   OF  BYRON. 

Adah.  It  shall. 

Surely  a  father's  blessing  may  avert 
A  reptile's  subtlety. 

Cain.  Of  that  I  doubt; 

But  bless  him  ne'er  the  less. 


IV. 

SATIRIC 


SES7VS    TO   ABYDOS.  241 


FAME. 

OH,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

What   are   garlands   and   crowns   to   the   brow  that   is 

wrinkled? 

'T  is  but  as  a  dead-flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled. 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary ! 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory? 

Oh  FAME  !  —  if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'T  was  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my  story, 
I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 


WRITTEN    AFTER    SWIMMING    FROM 
SESTOS   TO  ABYDOS. 

IF,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember?) 

To  cross  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont ! 


242  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar'd, 
He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loth, 

And  thus  of  old  thy  current  pour'd, 
Fair  Venus  !  how  I  pity  both  ! 

For  me,  degenerate  modern  wretch, 
Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May, 

My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch, 
And  think  I  've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  cross'd  the  rapid  tide, 
According  to  the  doubtful  story, 

To  woo,  — and  —  Lord  knows  what  beside, 
And  swam  for  Love,  as  I  for  Glory; 

'T  were  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best: 

Sad  mortals  !  thus  the  Gods  still  plague  you  ! 

He  lost  his  labor,  I  my  jest: 

For  he  was  drown'd,  and  I  've  the  ague. 


ON  MY  THIRTY-THIRD  BIRTHDAY. 
January  22,  1821. 

THROUGH  life's  dull  road,  so  dim  and  dirty, 
I  have  dragg'd  to  three  and  thirty. 
What  have  these  years  left  to  me? 
Nothing  —  except  thirty-three. 


MR.  MURRAY   TO   DR.  POLIDOR2.         243 


TO  MR.    MURRAY. 

FOR  Orford  and  for  Waldegrave 

You  give  much  more  than  me  you  gave; 

Which  is  not  fairly  to  behave, 

My  Murray. 

Because  if  a  live  dog,  't  is  said, 
Be  worth  a  lion  fairly  sped, 
A  live  lord  must  be  worth  two  dead, 
My  Murray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes, 
Verse  hath  a  better  sale  than  prose  — 
Certes,  I  should  have  more  than  those, 
My  Murray. 

But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cramm'd, 
So,  if  you  will,  /sha'n't  be  shamm'd, 
And  if  you  -won't,  you  may  be  damn'd, 
My  Murray. 


EPISTLE   FROM  MR.   MURRAY  TO 
DR.   POLIDORI. 

DEAR  DOCTOR,  I  have  read  your  play. 
Which  is  a  good  one  in  its  way,  — 
Purges  the  eyes  and  moves  the  bowels, 
And  drenches  handkerchiefs  like  towels 


244  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

With  tears,  that,  in  a  flux  of  grief, 
Afford  hysterical  relief 
To  shatter'd  nerves  and  quicken'd  pulses, 
Which  your  catastrophe  convulses. 

I  like  your  moral  and  machinery; 
Your  plot,  too,  has  such  scope  for  scenery; 
Your  dialogue  is  apt  and  smart; 
The  play's  concoction  full  of  art; 
Your  hero  raves,  your  heroine  cries, 
All  stab,  and  everybody  dies. 
In  short,  your  tragedy  would  be 
The  very  thing  to  hear  and  see : 
And  for  a  piece  of  publication, 
If  I  decline  on  this  occasion, 
It  is  not  that  I  am  not  sensible 
To  merits  in  themselves  ostensible, 
But  —  and  I  grieve  to  speak  it  —  plays 
Are  drugs  —  mere  drugs,  sir  • — •  nowadays. 
I  had  a  heavy  loss  by  "  Manuel,"  — 
Too  lucky  if  it  prove  not  annual,  — 
And  Sotheby,  with  his  "  Orestes  " 
(Which,  by  the  by,  the  author's  best  is), 
Has  lain  so  very  long  on  hand 
That  I  despair  of  all  demand. 
I  've  advertised,  but  see  my  books, 
Or  only  watch  my  shopman's  looks;  — 
Still  Ivan,  Ina,  and  such  lumber, 
My  back-shop  glut,  my  shelves  encumber. 

There  's  Byron,  too,  who  once  did  better, 
Has  sent  me,  folded  in  a  letter, 


MR.  MURRAY   TO   DR.  POLIDORI.         245 

A  sort  of  —  it 's  no  more  a  drama 

Than  Darnley,  Ivan,  or  Kehama; 

So  alter'd  since  last  year  his  pen  is, 

I  think  he  's  lost  his  wits  at  Venice. 

In  short,  sir,  what  with  one  and  t'  other, 

I  dare  not  venture  on  another. 

I  write  in  haste;   excuse  each  blunder; 

The  coaches  through  the  street  so  thunder ! 

My  room  's  so  full  — we  've  Gifford  here 

Reading  MS.,  with  Hookham  Frere 

Pronouncing  on  the  nouns  and  particles 

Of  some  of  our  forthcoming  Articles. 

The  Quarterly  —  Ah,  sir,  if  you 
Had  but  the  genius  to  review  !  — 
A  smart  critique  upon  St.  Helena, 
Or  if  you  only  would  but  tell  in  a 

Short  compass  what but,  to  resume; 

As  I  was  saying,  sir,  the  room  — 

The  room  's  so  full  of  wits  and  bards, 

Crabbes,  Campbells,  Crokers,  Freres  and  Wards, 

And  others,  neither  bards  nor  wits:  — 

My  humble  tenement  admits 

All  persons  in  the  dress  of  gent., 

From  Mr.  Hammond  to  Dog  Dent. 

A  party  dines  with  me  to-day, 
All  clever  men,  who  make  their  way; 
Crabbe,  Malcolm,  Hamilton,  and  Chantrey, 
Are  all  partakers  of  my  pantry. 
They  're  at  this  moment  in  discussion 
On  poor  De  Stael's  late  dissolution. 


246  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Her  book,  they  say,  was  in  advance  — 
Pray  heaven,  she  tell  the  truth  of  France ! 
Thus  run  our  time  and  tongues  away.  — 
But,  to  return,  sir,  to  your  play: 
Sorry,  sir,  but  I  cannot  deal, 
Unless  'twere  acted  by  O'Neill. 
My  hands  so  full,  my  head  so  busy, 
I  'm  almost  dead,  and  always  dizzy; 
And  so,  with  endless  truth  and  hurry, 
Dear  Doctor,  I  am  yours, 

JOHN  MURRAY. 


TO  MR.   MURRAY. 

STRAHAN,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  times, 
Patron  and  publisher  of  rhymes, 
For  thee  the  bard  up  Pindus  climbs, 
My  Murray. 

To  thee,  with  hope  and  terror  dumb, 
The  unfledged  MS.  authors  come; 
Thou  printest  all  —  and  sellest  some  — 
My  Murray. 

Upon  thy  table's  baize  so  green 
The  last  new  Quarterly  is  seen,  — - 
But  where  is  thy  new  Magazine, 
My  Murray? 


HOLLAND   HOUSE.  247 

Along  thy  sprucest  bookshelves  shine 
The  works  thou  deemest  most  divine  — 
The  "  Art  of  Cookery,"  and  mine, 
My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels,  Essays,  too,  I  wist 
And  Sermons  to  thy  mill  bring  grist; 
And  then  thou  hast  the  "  Navy  List," 
My  Murray. 

And  Heaven  forbid  I  should  conclude 
Without  "  the  Board  of  Longitude," 
Although  this  narrow  paper  would, 
My  Murray ! 


HOLLAND  HOUSE. 
(From  ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.) 

ILLUSTRIOUS  Holland !  hard  would  be  his  lot, 
His  hirelings  mention'd,  and  himself  forgot ! 
Holland,  with  Henry  Petty  at  his  back, 
The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 
jSlest  be  the  banquets  spread  at  Holland  House, 
Where  Scotchmen  feed,  and  critics  may  carouse ! 
Long,  long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof 
Shall  Grub-street  dine,  while  duns  are  kept  aloof. 
See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork, 
Resume  his  pen,  review  his  Lordship's  work, 
And,  grateful  for  the  dainties  on  his  plate, 
Declare  his  landlord  can  at  least  translate ! 


248  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Dunedin  !  view  thy  children  with  delight, 
They  write  for  food — and  feed  because  they  write: 
And  lest,  when  heated  with  the  unusual  grape, 
Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  escape, 
And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader's  cheek, 
My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique; 
Breathes  o  'er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul, 
Reforms  each  error,  and  refines  the  whole. 


EPILOGUE    TO    ENGLISH   BARDS    AND 
SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 

THUS  far  I  've  held  my  undisturb'd  career, 
Prepared  for  rancor,  steel'd  'gainst  selfish  fear: 
This  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  disdain'd  to  own-  — 
Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown : 
My  voice  was  heard  again,  though  not  so  loud, 
My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavow'd; 
And  now  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away :  — 
Cheer  on  the  pack !   the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 
Unscared  by  all  the  din  of  Melbourne  house, 
By  Lambe's  resentment,  or  by  Holland's  spouse, 
By  Jeffrey's  harmless  pistol,  Hallam's  rage, 
Edina's  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page. 
Our  men  in  buckram  shall  have  blows  enough, 
And  feel  they  too  are  "  penetrable  stuff:" 
And  though  I  hope  not  hence  unscathed  to  go, 
Who  conquers  me  shall  find  a  stubborn  foe. 
The  time  hath  been,  when  no  harsh  sound  would  fall 
From  lips  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall ; 


THE   LANDED  INTEREST.  249 

Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawl'd  beneath  my  eyes: 
But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  changed  since  youth, 
I  've  learn'd  to  think,  and  sternly  speak  the  truth; 
Learn'd  to  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree, 
And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me; 
To  spurn  the  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  kiss, 
Nor  care  if  courts  and  crowds  applaud  or  hiss : 
Nay  more,  though  all  my  rival  rhymesters  frown, 
I  too  can  hunt  a  poetaster  down; 
And,  arm'd  in  proof,  the  gauntlet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  and  to  southern  dunce. 


THE    LANDED    INTEREST. 
(AGE  OF  BRONZE,  Stanza  14.) 

ALAS,  the  country  !  how  shall  tongue  or  pen 

Bewail  her  now  w;/country  gentlemen  ? 

The  last  to  bid  the  cry  of  warfare  cease, 

The  first  to  make  a  malady  of  peace. 

For  what  were  all  these  country  patriots  born? 

To  hunt,  and  vote,  and  raise  the  price  of  corn? 

But  corn,  like  every  mortal  thing,  must  fall; 

Kings,  conquerors  —  and  markets  most  of  all. 

And  must  ye  fall  with  every  ear  of  grain? 

Why  would  you  trouble  Buonaparte's  reign? 

He  was  your  great  Triptolemus;   his  vices 

Destroy'd  but  realms,  and  still  maintain'd  your  prices; 

He  amplified  to  every  lord's  content 

The  grand  agrarian  aichymy,  high  rent. 


250  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Why  did  the  tyrant  stumble  on  the  Tartars, 
And  lower  wheat  to  such  desponding  quarters? 
Why  did  you  chain  him  on  yon  isle  so  lone? 
The  man  was  worth  much  more  upon  his  throne. 
True,  blood  and  treasure  boundlessly  were  spilt, 
But  what  of  that?  the  Gaul  may  bear  the  guilt; 
But  bread  was  high,  the  farmer  paid  his  way, 
And  acres  told  upon  the  appointed  day. 
But  where  is  now  the  goodly  audit  ale? 
The  purse-proud  tenant,  never  known  to  fail? 
The  farm  which  never  yet  was  left  on  hand? 
The  marsh  reclaim'dto  most  improving  land? 
The  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease? 
The  doubling  rental?  —  What  an  evil's  peace! 
In  vain  the  prize  excites  the  ploughman's  skill, 
In  vain  the  Commons  pass  their  patriot  bill; 
The  landed  interest —  (you  may  understand 
The  phrase  much  better  leaving  out  the  land)  — 
The  land  self-interest  groans  from  shore  to  shore, 
For  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 
Up,  up  again,  ye  rents !  exalt  your  notes, 
Or  else  the  ministry  will  lose  their  votes, 
And  patriotism,  so  delicately  nice, 
Her  loaves  will  lower  to  the  market  price; 
For  ah !  "  the  loaves  and  fishes,"  once  so  high, 
Are  gone  —  their  oven  closed,  their  ocean  dry, 
And  nought  remains  of  all  the  millions  spent, 
Excepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content. 
They  who  are  not  so,  had  their  turn  —  and  turn 
About  still  flows  from  Fortune's  equal  urn; 
Now  let  their  virtue  be  its  own  reward, 
And  share  the  blessings  which  themselves  prepared. 


ITALY.  251 

See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm, 

Farmers  of  war,  dictators  of  the  farm; 

Their  ploughshare  was  the  sword  in  hireling  hands, 

Their  fields  manured  by  gore  of  other  lands; 

Safe  in  their  barns,  these  Sabine  tillers  sent 

Their  brethren  out  to  battle  —  why  ?  for  rent ! 

Year  after  year  they  voted  cent  per  cent, 

Blood,  sweat,  and  tear-wrung  millions  —  why?  for  rent! 

They  roar'd,  they  dined,  they  drank,   they   swore  they 

meant 

To  die  for  England  —  why  then  live?  — for  rent ! 
The  peace  has  made  one  general  malcontent 
Of  these  high-market  patriots;    war  was  rent! 
Their  love  of  country,  millions  all  mis-spent, 
How  reconcile?  by  reconciling  rent ! 
And  will  they  not  repay  the  treasures  lent? 
No :   down  with  everything,  and  up  with  rent ! 
Their  good,  ill,  health,  wealth,  joy,  or  discontent, 
Being,  end,  aim,  religion  —  rent,  rent,  rent! 


ITALY. 
(BEPPO,  Stanzas  41-45.) 

WITH  all  its  sinful  doings,  I  must  say, 
That  Italy  's  a  pleasant  place  to  me, 

Who  love  to  see  the  sun  shine  every  day, 

And  vines  (not  nail'd  to  walls)  from  tree  to  tree 

Festoon'd,  much  like  the  back  scene  of  a  play, 
Or  melodrame,  which  people  flock  to  see, 

When  the  first  act  is  ended  by  a  dance 

In  vineyards  copied  from  the  south  of  France. 


252  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

I  like  on  Autumn  evenings  to  ride  out, 

Without  being  forced  to  bid  my  groom  be  sure 

My  cloak  is  round  his  middle  strapp'd  about, 
Because  the  skies  are  not  the  most  secure; 

I  know  too  that,  if  stopp'd  upon  my  route, 
Where  the  green  alleys  windingly  allure, 

Reeling  with  grapes  red  wagons  choke  the  way,  — 

In  England  't  would  be  dung,  dust,  or  a  dray. 

I  also  like  to  dine  on  becaficas, 

To  see  the  Sun  set,  sure  he  '11  rise  to-morrow, 
Not  through  a  misty  morning,  twinkling  weak  as 

A  drunken  man's  dead  eye  in  maudlin  sorrow, 
But  with  all  Heaven  t'  himself  ;  that  day  will  break  as 

Beauteous  as  cloudless,  not  be  forced  to  borrow 
That  sort  of  farthing  candlelight  which  glimmers 
Where  reeking  London's  smoky  caldron  simmers. 

I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 
Which  melts  like  kisses  from  a  female  mouth, 

And  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin, 

With  syllables  which  breathe  of  the  sweet  South, 

And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  in, 
That  not  a  single  accent  seems  uncouth, 

Like  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting  guttural, 

Which  we  're  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit,  and  sputter  all. 

I  like  the  women  too  (forgive  my  folly), 

From  the  rich  peasant  cheek  of  ruddy  bronsce, 

And  large  black  eyes  that  flash  on  you  a  volley 
Of  rays  that  say  a  thousand  things  at  once, 


ENGLAND.  253 

To  the  high  dama's  brow,  more  melancholy, 

But  clear,  and  with  a  wild  and  liquid  glance, 
Heart  on  her  lips,  and  soul  within  her  eyes, 
Soft  as  her  clime,  and  sunny  as  her  skies. 


ENGLAND. 
(BEPPO,  Stanzas  47-49.) 

"  ENGLAND!  with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  still," 
I  said  at  Calais,  and  have  not  forgot  it ; 

I  like  to  speak  and  lucubrate  my  fill  ; 

I  like  the  government  (but  that  is  not  it)  ; 

I  like  the  freedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 

I  like  the  Habeas  Corpus  (when  we  've  got  it)  ; 

I  like  a  parliamentary  debate, 

Particularly  when  't  is  not  too  late  ; 

I  like  the  taxes,  when  they  're  not  too  many  ; 

I  like  a  sea-coal  fire,  when  not  too  dear  ; 
I  like  a  beef-steak,  too,  as  well  as  any ; 

Have  no  objection  to  a  pot  of  beer; 
I  like  the  weather,  when  it  is  not  rainy, 

That  is,  I  like  two  months  of  every  year. 
And  so  God  save  the  Regent,  Church  and  King  1 
Which  means  that  I  like  all  and  every  thing. 

Our  standing  army,  and  disbanded  seamen, 

Poor's  rate,  Reform,  my  own,  the  nation's  debt, 

Our  little  riots  just  to  show  we  are  free  men, 
Our  trifling  bankruptcies  in  the  Gazette, 


254  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Our  cloudy  climate,  and  our  chilly  women, 
All  these  I  can  forgive,  and  those  forget, 
And  greatly  venerate  our  recent  glories, 
And  wish  they  were  not  owing  to  the  Tories 


WANTED  — A   HERO. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  i.  Stanzas  1-5.) 

I  WANT  a  hero :  an  uncommon  want, 

When  every  year  and  month  sends  forth  a  new  one, 
Till,  after  cloying  the  gazettes  with  cant, 

The  age  discovers  he  is  not  the  true  one  ; 
Of  such  as  these  I  should  not  care  to  vaunt, 

I'  11  therefore  take  our  ancient  friend  Don  Juan  — 
We  all  have  seen  him,  in  the  pantomime, 
Sent  to  the  devil  somewhat  ere  his  time. 

Vernon,  the  butcher  Cumberland,  Wolfe,  Hawke, 

Prince  Ferdinand,  Granby,  Burgoyne,  Keppel,  Howe, 

Evil  and  good,  have  had  their  tithe  of  talk, 

And  fill'd  their  sign-posts  then,  like  Wellesley  now  ; 

Each  in  their  turn  like  Banquo's  monarchs  stalk, 
Followers  of  fame,  "  nine  farrow"  of  that  sow: 

France,  too,  had  Buonaparte  and  Dumourier 

Recorded  in  the  Moniteur  and  Courier. 

Barnave,  Brissot,  Condorcet,  Mirabeau, 

Petion,  Clootz,  Danton,  Marat,  La  Fayette, 
Were  French,  and  famous  people,  as  we  know  ; 


WANTED— A   HERO.  255 

And  there  were  others,  scarce  forgotten  yet, 
Joubert,  Hoche,  Marceau,  Lannes,  Desaix,  Moreau, 

With  many  of  the  military  set, 
Exceedingly  remarkable  at  times, 
But  not  at  all  adapted  to  my  rhymes. 

Nelson  was  once  Britannia's  god  of  war, 

And  still  should  be  so,  but  the  tide  is  turn'd  ; 

There  's  no  more  to  be  said  of  Trafalgar, 
'Tis  with  our  hero  quietly  inurn'd  ; 

Because  the  army  's  grown  more  popular, 
At  which  the  naval  people  are  concern'd  ; 

Besides,  the  prince  is  all  for  the  land-service, 

Forgetting  Duncan,  Nelson,  Howe,  and  Jervis. 

Brave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon 
And  since,  exceeding  valorous  and  sage, 

A  good  deal  like  him  too,  though  quite  the  same  none  ; 
But  then  they  shone  not  on  the  poet's  page, 

And  so  have  been  forgotten  :  — I  condemn  none, 
But  can't  find  any  in  the  present  age 

Fit  for  my  poem  (that  is,  for  my  new  one)  ; 

So,  as  I  said,  I  '11  take  my  friend  Don  Juan. 


256  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

LONDON. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  x.  Stanzas  81,  82.) 

THE  sun  went  down,  the  smoke  rose  up  as  from 
A  half-unquench'd  volcano,  o'er  a  space 

Which  well  beseem'd  the  "  Devil's  drawing-room," 
As  some  have  qualified  that  wondrous  place  : 

But  Juan  felt,  though  not  approaching  home, 
As  one  who,  though  he  were  not  of  the  race, 

Revered  the  soil,  of  those  true  sons  the  mother, 

Who  butcher'd  half  the  earth,  and  bullied  t'  other. 

A  mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping, 

Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  then  lost  amidst  the  forestry 
Of  masts  ;  a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 

On  tiptoe  through  their  sea-coal  canopy  ; 
A  huge,  dun  cupola,  like  a  foolscap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head —  and  there  is  London  Town ! 


THINGS  SWEET. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  i.  Stanzas  123-127.) 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark 
Bay  deep-mouth'd  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home; 

'T  is  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come; 


THINGS  SWEET.  257 

'T  is  sweet  to  be  awaken'd  by  the  lark, 

Or  lulPd  by  falling  waters;  sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 
The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  grapes 

In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth 
Purple  and  gushing:  sweet  are  our  escapes 

From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  ; 
Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps, 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-born's  birth, 
Sweet  is  revenge  —  especially  to  women, 
Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

Sweet  is  a  legacy,  and  passing  sweet 

The  unexpected  death  of  some  old  lady 
Or  gentleman  of  seventy  years  complete, 

Who    've    -made    "us  youth "  wait    too  —  too    long 

already 
For  an  estate,  or  cash,  or  country-seat, 

Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady, 
That  all  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  its 
Next  owner  for  their  double-damn'd  post-obits. 

'T  is  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one's  laurels, 
By  blood  or  ink;  't  is  sweet  to  put  an  end 

To  strife;  't  is  sometimes  sweet  to  have  our  quarrels, 
Particularly  with  a  tiresome  friend: 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels; 
Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 

Against  the  world;  and  dear  the  schoolboy  spot 

We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 


258  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

But  sweeter  still,  than  this,  than  these,  than  all, 
Is  first  and  passionate  love  —  it  stands  alone, 

Like  Adam's  recollection  of  his  fall; 
The    tree   of    knowledge   has    been  pluck'd — all's 
known  — 

And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 
Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin,  so  shown, 

No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 

Fire  which  Prometheus  filch'd  for  us  from  heaven. 


LAMBRO  'S  RETURN. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  27,  29-41.) 

HE  saw  his  white  walls  shining  in  the  sun, 
His  garden  trees  all  shadowy  and  green  ; 

He  heard  his  rivulet's  light  bubbling  run, 
The  distant  dog-bark  ;  and  perceived  between 

The  umbrage  of  the  wood  so  cool  and  dun 
The  moving  figures,  and  the  sparkling  sheen 

Of  arms  (in  the  East  all  arm)  — and  various  dyes 

Of  color'd  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 

And  still  more  nearly  to  the  place  advancing, 
Descending  rather  quickly  the  declivity, 

Through  the  waved  branches,  o'er  the  greensward 

glancing, 
'Midst  other  indications  of  festivity, 

Seeing  a  troop  of  his  domestics  dancing 
Like  dervises,  who  turn  as  on  a  pivot,  he 

Perceived  it  was  the  Pyrrhic  dance  so  martial, 

To  which  the  Levantines  are  very  partial. 


LAMBRO'S  RETURN.  259 

And  further  on  a  group  of  Grecian  girls, 

The  first  and  tallest  her  white  kerchief  waving, 

Were  strung  together  like  a  row  of  pearls, 

Link'd  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing ;  each  too  having 

Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls  — 
(The  least  of  which  would  set  t?n  poets  raving)  ; 

Their  leader  sang  —  and  bounded  to  her  song, 

With  choral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin  throng. 

And  here,  assembled  cross-legg'd  round  their  trays, 

Small  social  parties  just  begun  to  dine  ; 
Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gaze, 

And  flasks  of  Samian  and  of  Chian  wine, 
And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase  ; 

Above  them  their  dessert  grew  on  its  vine, 
The  orange  and  pomegranate  nodding  o'er, 
Dropp'd  in  their  laps,  scarce  pluck'd,  their  mellow  store. 

A  band  of  children,  round  a  snow-white  ram, 
There  wreathe  his  venerable  horns  with  flowers ; 

While  peaceful,  as  if  still  an  unwean'd  lamb, 
The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 

His  sober  head,  majestically  tame, 

Or  eats  from  out  the  palm,  or  playful  lowers 

His  brow,  as  if  in  act  to  butt,  and  then 

Yielding  to  their  small  hands,  draws  back  again. 

Their  classic  profiles,  and  glittering  dresses, 

Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic  cheeks, 

Crimson  as  cleft  pomegranates,  their  long  tresses, 
The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that  speaks, 


260  POETRY  OF  BYRON.  ' 

The  innocence  which  happy  childhood  blesses, 
Made  quite  a  picture  of  these  little  Greeks  ; 
So  that  the  philosophical  beholder 
Sigh'd,  for  their  sakes  —  that  they  should  e'er  grow  older. 

Afar,  a  dwarf  buffoon  stood  telling  tales 

To  a  sedate  gray  circle  of  old  smokers 
Of  secret  treasures  found  in  hidden  vales, 

Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arab  jokers, 
Of  charms  to  make  good  gold  and  cure  bad  ails, 

Of  rocks  bewitch'd  that  open  to  the  knockers, 
Of  magic  ladies  who,  by  one  sole  act, 
Transform'd  their  lords  to  beasts  (but  that 's  a  fact). 

Here  was  no  lack  of  innocent  diversion 

For  the  imagination  or  the  senses, 
Song,  dance,  wine,  music,  stories  from  the  Persian, 

All  pretty  pastimes  in  which  no  offence  is; 
But  Lambro  saw  all  these  things  with  aversion, 

Perceiving  in  his  absence  such  expenses, 
Dreading  that  climax  of  all  human  ills, 
The  inflammation  of  his  weekly  bills. 

Ah!  what  is  man?  what  perils  still  environ 
The  happiest  mortals  even  after  dinner  — 

A  day  of  gold  from  out  an  age  of  iron 
Is  all  that  life  allows  the  luckiest  sinner; 

Pleasure  (whene'er  she  sings,  at  least)  's  a  siren, 
That  lures,  to  flay  alive,  the  young  beginner; 

Lambro's  reception  at  his  people's  banquet 

Was  such  as  fire  accords  to  a  wet  blanket. 


LAMBRO'S  RETURN.  261 

He  — being  a  man  who  seldom  used  a  word 
Too  much,  and  wishing  gladly  to  surprise 

(In  general  he  surprised  men  with  the  sword) 
His  daughter  —  had  not  sent  before  to  advise 

Of  his  arrival,  so  that  no  one  stirr'd  ; 

And  long  he  paused  to  re-assure  his  eyes, 

In  fact  much  more  astonish'd  than  delighted, 

To  find  so  much  good  company  invited. 

He  did  not  know  (alas !  how  men  will  lie) 

That  a  report  (especially  the  Greeks) 
Avouch'd  his  death  (such  people  never  die), 

And  put  his  house  in  mourning  several  weeks,  — 
But  now  their  eyes  and  also  lips  were  dry; 

The  bloom,  too,  had  return'd  to  Haidee's  cheeks. 
Her  tears,  too,  being  return'd  into  their  fount, 
She  now  kept  house  upon  her  own  account. 

Hence  all  this  rice,  meat,  dancing,  wine,  and  fiddling, 
Which  turn'd  the  isle  into  a  place  of  pleasure; 

The  servants  all  were  getting  drunk  or  idling, 
A  life  which  made  them  happy  beyond  measure. 

Her  father's  hospitality  seem'd  middling, 

Compared  with  what  Haidee  did  with  his  treasure; 

'T  was  wonderful  how  things  went  on  improving, 

«Vhile  she  had  not  one  hour  to  spare  from  loving. 

Perhaps  you  think  in  stumbling  on  this  feast 

He  flew  into  a  passion,  and  in  fact 
There  was  no  mighty  reason  to  be  pleased; 

Perhaps  you  prophesy  some  sudden  act, 


262  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

The  whip,  the  rack,  or  dungeon  at  the  least, 

To  teach  his  people  to  be  more  exact, 
And  that,  proceeding  at  a  very  high  rate, 
He  show'd  the  royal  penchants  of  a  pirate. 

You  're  wrong.  —  He  was  the  mildest  manner'd  man 
That  ever  scuttled  ship  or  cut  a  throat; 

With  such  true  breeding  of  a  gentleman, 
You  never  could  divine  his  real  thought; 

No  courtier  could,  and  scarcely  woman  can 
Gird  more  deceit  within  a  petticoat; 

Pity  he  loved  adventurous  life's  variety, 

He  was  so  great  a  loss  to  good  society. 


A    STORMED   CITY. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  viii.  Stanzas  123-127.) 

ALL  that  the  mind  would  shrink  from  of  excesses; 

All  that  the  body  perpetrates  of  bad; 
All  that  we  read,  hear,  dream,  of  man's  distresses; 

All  that  the  devil  would  do  if  run  stark  mad; 
All  that  defies  the  worst  which  pen  expresses; 

All  by  which  hell  is  peopled,  or  as  sad 
As  hell  —  mere  mortals  who  their  power  abuse  — 
Was  here  (as  heretofore  and  since)  let  loose. 

If  here  and  there  some  transient  trait  of  pity 

Was  shown,  and  some  more  noble  heart  broke  through 

Its  bloody  bond,  and  saved,  perhaps,  some  pretty 
Child,  or  an  aged,  helpless  man  or  two  — 


A  STORMED   CITY,  263 

What  's  this  in  one  annihilated  city, 

Where  thousand  loves,  and  ties,  and  dnt'e*  grow? 
Cockneys  of  London !  Muscadins  of  Paris ! 
Just  ponder  what  a  pious  pastime  war  is. 

Think  how  the  joys  of  reading  a  Gazette 
Are  purchased  by  all  agonies  and  crimes: 

Or  if  these  do  not  move  you,  don't  forget 
Such  doom  may  be  your  own  in  after-times. 

Meantime  the  Taxes,  Castlereagh,  and  Debt, 
Are  hints  as  good  as  sermons,  or  as  rhymes. 

Read  your  own  hearts  and  Ireland's  present  story 

Then  feed  her  famine  fat  with  Wellesley's  glory. 

But  still  there  is  unto  a  patriot  nation, 

Which  loves  so  well  its  country  and  its  king, 

A  subject  of  sublimest  exultation  — 

Bear  it,  ye  Muses,  on  your  brightest  wing ! 

Howe'er  the  mighty  locust,  Desolation, 

Strip  your  green  fields,  and  to  your  harvests  cling. 

Gaunt  famine  never  shall  approach  the  throne  — 

Though  Ireland  starve,  great  George  weighs  twenty  stone 

But  let  me  put  an  end  unto  my  theme : 

There  was  an  end  of  Ismail  —  hapless  town  ! 

Far  flash'd  her  burning  towers  o'er  Danube's  stream, 
And  redly  ran  his  blushing  waters  down. 

The  horrid  war-whoop  and  the  shriller  scream 
Rose  still;   but  fainter  were  the  thunders  grown: 

Of  forty  thousand  who  had  mann'd  the  wall, 

Some  hundreds  breathed  —  the  rest  were  silent  all ! 


264  POE  TR  Y  OF  B  YRON. 

EXHORTATION  TO  MR.   WILBERFORCE. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  xiv.  Stanzas  82-84.) 

O  WILBERFORCE  !  thou  man  of  black  renown, 
Whose  merit  none  enough  can  sing  or  say, 

Thou  hast  struck  one  immense  Colossus  down, 
Thou  moral  Washington  of  Africa ! 

But  there  's  another  little  thing,  I  own, 

Which  you  should  perpetrate  some  summer's  day, 

And  set  the  other  half  of  earth  to  rights; 

You  have  freed  the  blacks  —  now  pray  shut  up  the  whites. 

Shut  up  the  bald-coot  bully  Alexander ! 

Ship  off  the  Holy  Three  to  Senegal; 
Teach  them  that  "  sauce  for  goose  is  sauce  for  gander," 

And  ask  them  how  they  like  to  be  in  thrall? 
Shut  up  each  high  heroic  salamander, 

Who  eats  fire  gratis  (since  the  pay  's  but  small); 
Shut  up  —  no,  not  the  King,  but  the  Pavilion, 
Or  else  't  will  cost  us  all  another  million. 

Shut  up  the  world  at  large,  let  Bedlam  out; 

And  you  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  find 
All  things  pursue  exactly  the  same  route, 

As  now  with  those  of  soi-disant  sound  mind. 
This  I  could  prove  beyond  a  single  doubt, 

Were  there  a  jot  of  sense  among  mankind; 
But  till  that  point  cfappui  is  found,  alas! 
Like  Archimedes,  I  leave  earth  as  "t  was. 


EXHORTATION  TO  MRS.  FRY.         265 

EXHORTATION  TO  MRS.   FRY. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  x.  Stanzas  85-87.) 

OH  Mrs.  Fry  !     Why  go  to  Newgate?     Why 

Preach  to  poor  rogues?     And  wherefore  not  begin 

With  Carlton,  or  with  other  houses?     Try 
Your  hand  at  harden'd  and  imperial  sin. 

To  mend  the  people  's  an  absurdity. 
A  jargon,  a  mere  philanthropic  din, 

Unless  you  make  their  betters  better :  —  Fy ! 

I  thought  you  had  more  religion,  Mrs.  Fry. 

Teach  them  the  decencies  of  good  threescore; 

Cure  them  of  tours,  hussar  and  highland  dresses; 
Tell  them  that  youth  once  gone  returns  no  more, 

That  hired  huzzas  redeem  no  land's  distresses; 
Tell  them  Sir  William  Curtis  is  a  bore, 

Too  dull  even  for  the  dullest  of  excesses, 
The  witless  Falstaff  of  a  hoary  Hal, 
A  fool  whose  bells  have  ceased  to  ring  at  all. 

Tell  them,  though  it  may  be  perhaps  too  late 
On  life's  worn  confine,  jaded,  bloated,  sated, 

To  set  up  vain  pretences  of  being  great, 
'T  is  not  so  to  be  good;   and  be  it  stated, 

The  worthiest  kings  have  ever  loved  least  state; 

And  tell  them But  you  won't,  and  I  have  prated 

Just  now  enough;    but  by  and  by  I  '11  prattle 

Like  Roland's  horn  in  Roncesvalles'  battle. 


266  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 


SATAN  CLAIMS,  AT  HEAVEN'S  GATE, 
GEORGE  THE   THIRD. 

(VISION  OF  JUDGMENT,  Stanzas  42-49. ) 

"  LOOK  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again: 

When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak,  poor  worm 

Began  in  youth's  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign, 
The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  different  form, 

And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 

Of  ocean  call'd  him  king:   through  many  a  storm 

His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time; 

For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  their  clime. 

"  He  came  to  his  sceptre  young;   he  leaves  it  old: 
Look  to  the  state  in  which  he  found  his  realm, 

And  left  it;   and  his  annals  too  behold, 
How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm; 

How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold, 
The  beggar's  vice,  which  can  but  overwhelm 

The  meanest  hearts;   and  for  the  rest,  but  glance 

Thine  eye  along  America  and  France. 

"  'T  is  true,  he  was  a  tool  from  first  to  last 
(I  have  the  workmen  safe);   but  as  a  tool 

So  let  him  be  consumed.     From  out  the  past 
Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the  rule 

Of  monarchs  —  from  the  bloody  rolls  amass'd 
Of  sin  and  slaughter  —  from  the  Caesar's  school, 

Take  the  worst  pupil;   and  produce  a  reign 

More  drench'd  with  gore,  more  cumber'd  with  the  slain. 


SATAN  CLAIMS  GEORGE   THE  THIRD.     267 

"  He  ever  warr'd  with  freedom  and  the  free: 
Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign  foes, 

So  that  they  utter'd  the  word  '  Liberty !  ' 

Found  George  the  Third  their  first  opponent.     Whose 

History  was  ever  stain'd  as  his  will  be 
With  national  and  individual  woes? 

I  grant  his  household  abstinence;    I  grant 

His  neutral  virtues,  which  most  monarchs  want; 

"  I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort;  own 
He  was  a  decent  sire,  and  middling  lord. 

All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne; 
As  temperance,  if  at  Apicius'  board, 

Is  more  than  at  an  anchorite's  supper  shown. 
I  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord; 

And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for  those 

Millions  who  found  him  what  oppression  chose. 

"  The  New  World  shook  him  off:  the  Old  yet  groans 
Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 

Completed :  he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 
To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 

Compassion  for  him  —  his  tame  virtues;   drones 
Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  forgot 

A  lesson  which  shall  be  re-taught  them,  wake 

Upon  the  thrones  of  earth;   but  let  them  quake! 

"  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who^hold 
The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth,  implored 

A  part  of  that  vast  all  they  held  of  old,  — 
Freedom  to  worship  —  not  alone  your  Lord, 


268  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Michael !  but  you;   and  you,  Saint  Peter  !     Cold 

Must  be  your  souls,  if  you  have  not  abhorr'd 
The  foe  to  Catholic  participation 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Christian  nation. 

"  True  !  he  allow 'd  them  to  pray  God;   but  as 
A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 

Which  would  have  placed  them  upon  the  same  base 
With  those  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in  awe."  - 

But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place, 
And  cried,  "  You  may  the  prisoner  withdraw: 

Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelph, 

While  I  am  guard,  may  I  be  damn'd  myself ! " 


THE  SEX. 
(CHILDE  HAROLD,  Canto  ii.  Stanza  34.) 

NOT  much  he  kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast, 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  possess'd? 
Do  proper  homage  to  thine  Idol's  eyes, 
But  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes: 
Disguise  ev'n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise; 
Brisk  Confidence  still  best  with  woman  copes; 
Pique  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  Passion  crowns  thy 
hopes. 


SOUL.  269 

OUR   CHILDREN. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  59,  60.) 

IT  is  a  hard  although  a  common  case 

To  find  our  children  running  restive;  — they, 

In  whom  our  brightest  days  we  would  retrace, 
Our  little  selves  re-form'd  in  finer  clay, 

Just  as  old  age  is  creeping  on  apace, 

And  clouds  come  o'er  the  sunset  of  our  day, 

They  kindly  leave  us,  though  not  quite  alone, 

But  in  good  company  —  the  gout  or  stone. 

Yet  a  fine  family  is  a  fine  thing 

(Provided  they  don't  come  in  after  dinner); 
'T  is  beautiful  to  see  a  matron  bring 

Her  children  up  (if  nursing  them  don't  thin  her); 
Like  cherubs  round  an  altar-piece  they  cling 

To  the  fireside  (a  sight  to  touch  a  sinner) 
A  lady  with  her  daughters  or  her  nieces 
Shine  like  a  guinea  and  seven-shilling  pieces. 


SOUL. 

(DON  JUAN,  Canto  xiv.  Stanzas  70-72.) 

HE  was  a  cold,  good,  honorable  man, 

Proud  of  his  birth,  and  proud  of  everything; 

A  goodly  spirit  for  a  state  divan, 
A  figure  fit  to  walk  before  a  king; 


270  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Tall,  stately,  form'd  to  lead  the  courtly  van 

On  birthdays,  glorious  with  a  star  and  string; 
The  very  model  of  a  chamberlain  — 
And  such  I  mean  to  make  him  when  I  reign. 

But  there  was  something  wanting  on  the  whole  — 
I  don't  know  what,  and  therefore  cannot  tell  — 

Which  pretty  women  —  the  sweet  souls  !  —  call  soul. 
Certes  it  was  not  body;   he  was  well 

Proportion'd,  as  a  poplar  or  a  pole, 
A  handsome  man,  that  human  miracle; 

And  in  each  circumstance  of  love  or  war 

Had  still  preserved  his  perpendicular. 

Still  there  was  something  wanting,  as  I  've  said- — 

That  undefinable  "Je  ne  sais  quoi" 
Which,  for  what  I  know,  may  of  yore  have  led 

To  Homer's  Iliad,  since  it  drew  to  Troy 
The  Greek  Eve,  Helen,  from  the  Spartan's  bed; 

Though  on  the  whole,  no  doubt,  the  Dardan  boy 
Was  much  inferior  to  King  Menelaiis :  — 
But  thus  it  is  some  women  will  betray  us. 


MOBILITY. 

(DON  JUAN,  Canto  xvi.  Stanzas  96-98.) 
JUAN,  when  he  cast  a  glance 


On  Adeline  while  playing  her  grand  role, 

Which  she  went  through  as  though  it  were  a  dance 
(Betraying  only  now  and  then  her  soul 


GREAT  NAMES.  271 

By  a  look  scarce  perceptibly  askance 
Of  weariness  or  scorn),  began  to  feel 
Some  doubt  how  much  of  Adeline  was  real; 

So  well  she  acted  all  and  every  part 

By  turns  —  with  that  vivacious  versatility, 

Which  many  people  take  for  want  of  heart. 
They  err  —  't  is  merely  what  is  call'd  mobility, 

A  thing  of  temperament  —  and  not  of  art, 
Though  seeming  so  from  its  supposed  facility; 

And  false  —  though  true;   for  surely  they  're  sincerest 

Who  are  strongly  acted  on  by  what  is  nearest. 

This  makes  your  actors,  artists,  and  romancers, 
Heroes  sometimes,  though  seldom  —  sages  never; 

But  speakers,  bards,  diplomatists,  and  dancers, 
Little  that  's  great,  but  much  of  what  is  clever; 

Most  orators,  but  very  few  financiers, 
Though  all  Exchequer  chancellors  endeavor, 

Of  late  years,  to  dispense  with  Cocker's  rigors, 

And  grow  quite  figurative  with  their  figures. 


GREAT  NAMES. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  iii.  Stanzas  90-95,  and  98-100.) 

AND  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile; 

'T  is  something,  nothing,  words,  illusion,  wind- — 
Depending  more  upon  the  historian's  style 

Than  on  the  name  a  person  leaves  behind : 


272  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to  Hoyle : 

The  present  century  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborough's  skill  in  giving  knocks, 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

Milton  's  the  prince  of  poets  — so  we  say; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine : 
An  independent  being  in  his  day  — 

Learn'd,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and  wine; 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way, 

We  're  told  this  great  high  priest  of  all  the  Nine 
Was  whipt  at  college  —  a  harsh  sire  —  odd  spouse, 
For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house. 

All  these  are,  certes,  entertaining  facts, 

Like  Shakspeare's  stealing  deer,  Lord  Bacon's  bribes; 
Like  Titus'  youth,  and  Caesar's  earliest  acts; 

Like  Burns  (whom  Doctor  Currie  well  describes); 
Like  Cromwell's  pranks;  — but  although  truth  exacts 

These  amiable  descriptions  from  the  scribes, 
As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  story, 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 

All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 
He  prated  to  the  world  of  "  Pantisocrasy;  " 

Or  Wordsworth  unexcised,  unhired,  who  then 
Season'd  his  pedlar  poems  with  democracy; 

Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen 
Let  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy; 

When  he  and  Southey,  following  the  same  path, 

Espoused  two  partners  (milliners  of  Bath). 


GREAT  NAMES.  273 

Such  names  at  present  cut  a  convict  figure, 
The  very  Botany  Bay  in  moral  geography; 

Theii  loyal  treason,  renegado  rigor, 

Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare  biography. 

Wordsworth's  last  quarto,  by  the  way,  is  bigger 
Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typography; 

A  drowsy  frowsy  poem,  call'd  the  "  Excursion," 

Writ  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion. 

He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dyke 

Between  his  own  and  others'  intellect; 
But  Wordsworth's  poem,  and  his  followers,  like 

Joanna  Southcote's  Shiloh,  and  her  sect, 
Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't  strike 

The  public  mind  —  so  few  are  the  elect; 
And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale  virginities 
Have  proved  but  dropsies,  taken  for  divinities. 

We  learn  from  Horace,  "  Homer  sometimes  sleeps;  " 
We  feel  without  him,  Wordsworth  sometimes  wakes,  — 

To  show  with  what  complacency  he  creeps, 

With  his  dear  "  Waggoners,"  around  his  lakes. 

He  wishes  for  "a  boat  "  to  sail  the  deeps  — 
Of  ocean?  —  No,  of  air;  and  then  he  makes 

Another  outcry  for  "  a  little  boat," 

And  drivels  seas  to  set  it  well  afloat. 

If  he"  must  fain  sweep  o'er  the  ethereal  plain, 
And  Pegasus  runs  restive  in  his  "  Waggon," 

Could  he  not  beg  the  loan  of  Charles's  Wain? 
Or  pray  Medea  for  a  single  dragon? 


274  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

Oi  if  too  classic  for  his  vulgar  brain, 

He  fear'd  his  neck  to  venture  such  a  nag  on, 
And  he  must  needs  mount  nearer  to  the  moon, 
Could  not  the  blockhead  ask  for  a  balloon? 

"Pedlars,"  and  "Boats,"  and  "Waggons!"   Oh!  ye 
shades 

Of  Pope  and  Dryden,  are  we  come  to  this? 
That  trash  of  such  sort  not  alone  evades 

Contempt,  but  from  the  bathos'  vast  abyss 
Floats  scumlike  uppermost,  and  these  Jack  Cades 

Of  sense  and  song  above  your  graves  may  hiss !  — 
The  "  little  boatman,"  and  his  "  Peter  Bell," 
Can  sneer  at  him  who  drew  "  Achitophel !  " 


POETICAL   COMMANDMENTS. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  i.  Stanzas  204-206.) 

IF  ever  I  should  condescend  to  prose, 

I  '11  write  poetical  commandments,  which 

Shall  supersede  beyond  all  doubt  all  those 
That  went  before;   in  these  I  shall  enrich 

My  text  with  many  things  that  no  one  knows, 
And  carry  precept  to  the  highest  pitch : 

I'll  call  the  work  "  Longinus  o'er  a  Bottle, 

Or,  Every  Poet  his  own  Aristotle." 

Thou  shalt  believe  in  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope; 

Thou  shalt  not  set  up  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Southey ; 
Because  the  first  is  crazed  beyond  all  hope, 

The  second  drunk,  the  third  so  quaint  and  mouthy : 


BYRON  AND  HIS  CONTEMPORARIES.    275 

With  Crabbe  it  may  be  difficult  to  cope, 

And  Campbell's  Hipprocrene  is  somewhat  drouthy: 
Thou  shall  not  steal  from  Samuel  Rogers,  nor 
Commit  —  flirtation  with  the  muse  of  Moore. 

Thou  shall  not  covet  Mr.  Sotheby's  Muse, 

His  Pegasus,  nor  any  thing  lhat  's  his; 
Thou  shall  nol  bear  false  witness  like  "the  Blues"  — 

(There  's  one,  at  least,  is  very  fond  of  this) ; 
Thou  shall  not  write,  in  short,  but  what  I  choose : 

This  is  true  criticism,  and  you  may  kiss  — 
Exaclly  as  you  please,  or  not — ihe  rod; 
Bui  if  you  don't  I'll  lay  it  on,  by  G — d ! 


BYRON  AND  HIS  CONTEMPORARIES. 
(DoN  JUAN,  Canto  xi.  Stanzas  53-60.) 

JUAN  knew  several  languages  —  as  well 

He  might  —  and  brought  them  up  wilh  skill,  in  time 
To  save  his  fame  with  each  accomplish'd  belle, 

Who  still  regretted  that  he  did  not  rhyme. 
There  wanled  but  this  requisite  to  swell 

His  qualities  (with  them)  into  sublime: 
Lady  Fitz-Frisky  and  Miss  Msevia  Mannish, 
Both  long'd  extremely  lo  be  sung  in  Spanish. 

However,  he  did  prelly  well,  and  was 

Admitled  as  an  aspirant  to  all 
The  coteries,  and,  as  in  Banquo's  glass, 

At  great  assemblies  or  in  parties  small, 


276  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

He  saw  ten  thousand  living  authors  pass, 

That  being  about  their  average  numeral; 
Also  the  eighty  "greatest  living  poets," 
As  every  paltry  magazine  can  show  its. 

In  twice  five  years  the  "greatest  living  poet," 
Like  to  the  champion  in  the  fisty  ring, 

Is  call'd  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  show  it, 
Although  't  is  an  imaginary  thing. 

Even  I  —  albeit  I  'm  sure  I  did  not  know  it, 
Nor  sought  of  foolscap  subjects  to  be  king,  — 

Was  reckon'd  a  considerable  time, 

The  grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

But  Juan  was  my  Moscow,  and  Faliero 

My  Leipsic,  and  my  Mont  Saint  Jean  seems  Cain 

"  La  Belle  Alliance  "  of  dunces  down  at  zero, 
Now  that  the  Lion  's  fall'n,  may  rise  again: 

But  I  will  fall  at  least  as  fell  my  hero; 
Nor  reign  at  all,  or  as  a  monarch  reign; 

Or  to  some  lonely  isle  of  gaolers  go, 

With  turncoat  Southey  for  my  turnkey  Lowe. 

Sir  Walter  reign'd  before  me;   Moore  and  Campbell 
Before  and  after;    but  now  grown  more  holy, 

The  Muses  upon  Sion's  hill  must  ramble 
With  poets  almost  clergymen,  or  wholly; 

And  Pegasus  hath  a  psalmodic  amble 

Beneath  the  very  Reverend  Rowley  Powley, 

Who  shoes  the  glorious  animal  with  stilts, 

A  modern  Ancient  Pistol  —  by  the  hilts ! 


BYRON  AND  HIS  CONTEMPORARIES.    277 

Then  there  's  my  gentle  Euphues;   who,  they  say, 

Sets  up  for  being  a  sort  of  moral  me ; 
He  '11  find  it  rather  difficult  some  day 

To  turn  out  both,  or  either,  it  may  be. 
Some  persons  think  that  Coleridge  hath  the  sway; 

And  Wordsworth  has  supporters,  two  or  three; 
And  that  deep-mouth'd  Boeotian  "Savage  Landor  " 
Has  taken  for  a  swan  rogue  Southey's  gander. 

John  Keats,  who  was  kill'd  off  by  one  critique, 
Just  as  he  really  promised  something  great, 

If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 

Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late 

Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 
Poor  fellow !     His  was  an  untoward  fate; 

'T  is  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle, 

Should  let  itself  be  snuff'd  out  by  an  article. 

The  list  grows  long  of  live  and  dead  pretenders 
To  that  which  none  will  gain — or  none  will  know 

The  conqueror  at  least;  who,  ere  time  renders 
His  last  award,  will  have  the  long  grass  grow 

Above  his  burnt-out  brain,  and  sapless  cinders. 
If  I  might  augur,  I  should  rate  but  low 

Their  chances;  — they  're  too  numerous,  like  the  thirty 

Mock  tyrants,  when  Rome's  annals  wax'd  but  dirty. 


278  POETRY  OF  BYRON. 

POETICAL   PRODUCTION. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  xiv.  Stanzas  10,  n.) 

I  HAVE  brought  this  world  about  my  ears,  and  eke 
The  other;   that  's  to  say,  the  clergy  —  who 

Upon  my  head  have  bid  their  thunders  break 
In  pious  libels  by  no  means  a  few. 

And  yet  I  can't  help  scribbling  once  a  week, 
Tiring  old  readers,  nor  discovering  new. 

In  youth  I  wrote  because  my  mind  was  full, 

And  now  because  I  feel  it  growing  dull. 

But  "why  then  publish?" — There  are  no  rewards 
Of  fame  or  profit  when  the  world  grows  weary. 

I  ask  in  turn,  —  Why  do  you  play  at  cards? 

Why  drink  ?     Why  read  ?  —  To  make   some  hour  less 
dreary. 

It  occupies  me  to  turn  back  regards 

On  what  I  've  seen  or  ponder'd,  sad  or  cheery; 

And  what  I  write  I  cast  upon  the  stream, 

To  swim  or  sink  —  I  have  had  at  least  my  dream. 


THE  LIGHTER  SIDE. 
(DON  JUAN,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  3,  4.) 

As  boy,  I  thought  myself  a  clever  fellow, 

And  wish'd  that  others  held  the  same  opinion; 

They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more  mellow, 
And  other  minds  acknowledged  my  dominion : 


THE  LIGHTER  SIDE.  279 

Now  my  sere  fancy  "  falls  into  the  yellow 

Leaf,"  and  Imagination  droops  her  pinion, 
And  the  sad  truth  .which  hovers  o'er  my  desk 
Turns  what  was  orice  romantic  to  burlesque. 

And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 

'T  is  that  I  may  not  weep;    and  if  I  weep, 

'T  is  that  our  nature  cannot  always  bring 
Itself  to  apathy,  for  we  must  steep 

Our  hearts  first  in  the  depths  of  Lethe's  spring,     > 
Ere  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will  sleep; 

Thetis  b.aptized  her  mortal  son  in  Styx;  jj 

A  mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  fix. 


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